


Close Your Eyes

by sonofabiscuit77



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Infidelity, M/M, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-31
Updated: 2012-07-31
Packaged: 2017-11-11 03:07:19
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 52,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/473828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sonofabiscuit77/pseuds/sonofabiscuit77
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>There are some relationships so taboo they’re irresistible...</i> After John and Mary break up when Sam is 11, Sam moves away with Mary and his new step-father while Dean stays in Kansas with John. Fast-forward 12 years and John is dead, Sam’s just returned from Europe, and Dean’s gone and married a billionaire and become a male model. As the boys reconnect, Sam becomes increasingly fascinated by this successful, happily-married version of the big brother he barely knows, a fascination that soon turns into an overwhelming mutual obsession.</p><p>Warnings: non-hunting AU, infidelity, promiscuity, angst, recreational drug use. The Dean/OMC part is quite prevalent in this story, also the OMC in question is basically Alan Rickman ;-)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the SPN J2 bigbang 2012.  
>  **Link to art:** http://electricmonk333.livejournal.com/101449.html
> 
> Many thanks to my wonderful beta lj user ’dear_tiger’ for her support and help with this story. Against her advice, I’ve deliberately kept to British spellings in this fic. I tried so hard this year to write something that wasn’t an AU, but as you can see I failed miserably. But I’ve wanted to write something based on the film “Close My Eyes” for a long time; it’s definitely worth watching if you enjoy incestuous love triangles or Alan Rickman. A trailer can be found here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JoT3VwlQdXE

_August 2005_

Sam passed out into the Arrivals hall with his messenger bag banging against his hip, wheeling his suitcase behind him. He paused for a moment, blinking at the startlingly bright lights as he scanned the groups of people hanging by the entrance, his eyes finally landing on someone that looked like his brother. He edged forward to get a better view. The guy – Dean, he could see it was Dean now – was looking away from the gate, out of one of the enormous windows onto the tarmac below, at the runway lights glinting orange and red in the dark. 

Sam shifted the bag from one shoulder to the other, took a breath and strode towards him. 

“Dean?” he said. 

Dean whirled around, almost doing a double take as he stared back at him. “Sammy. Man, you’re so tall. How’d you get so tall?” 

“Yeah, uh, I don’t know. I just grew I guess. It’s - it’s good to see you.” 

Dean nodded, not quite meeting Sam’s eyes. “Yeah, you too.” 

“Though I wish,” he paused, swallowed. “I wish the circumstances were different. And I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Dean. About Dad.” 

Dean didn’t say anything to that but bent over to take the suitcase from Sam’s hand. “C’mon, we should get moving. It’s a couple of hours drive back home.” 

“Yeah, I remember,” Sam started saying, but Dean was turning away already, wheeling Sam’s suitcase deftly between the milling passengers. 

He’d never been close to his brother. Their parents had broken up when Sam was eleven and Dean just turned sixteen. At that time, the four and a half year age gap had been too wide for them to genuinely enjoy each other’s company or spend any real time together. Dean had his friends and Sam had his friends and the two never intermingled. Ironically, on the day their parents had announced that their marriage was over, they had been hanging out together. Dean had just gotten his driver’s permit, and his friends hadn’t been around, and so Dean had driven his little brother around in Mom’s car, just because he could. They’d gone to the movies, the arcade, the mall, and Sam had loved it, relished having Dean all to himself for once. 

Then they’d gotten home to see Mom and Dad sitting at the kitchen table with tight, white faces, their voices solemn and smiles fake. 

“We’ve got something to tell you, boys.” 

Mom had met someone else. Fallen in love, she said with tears in her eyes. I’m sorry, she said, but he’s moving to California, and I’m going with him, and you boys are coming with me. Dad had kept silent, let Mom do the talking, his eyes dark and unreadable, mouth clenched in a thin line, his brooding silence as epic and loud as Mom’s guilty tears. 

“I’m not going to California,” Dean had announced. “I’m not leaving Dad.” 

Dad’s face had cracked then, a small, genuine smile making the corners of his thin, brooding mouth crook up. It was a smile Sam could never remember being turned on him, one that only Dean seemed to inspire. But that didn’t matter anymore, because Sam was going to California with Mom, and Dean was staying in Kansas with Dad. 

He hadn’t seen much of his brother or his father afterwards. Mom would call to speak with Dean on the phone, beg him to come visit, offer to send the air fare because Dean and Dad never seemed to have any money. Dean usually said no, too busy with school or work, living his life completely separate from their comfortable Californian existence. 

He visited twice while Sam was in high school. The second time was for Christmas, which turned out to be the strangest and best Christmas Sam could remember. Dean had snuck out on Christmas Eve, gone to a bar and come back to the house, knocking softly on Sam’s window, stinking of beer when he finally stumbled in. He was drunk and rambling, talking about this chick who’d blown him in the men’s room. Dean was twenty and Sam was sixteen and Dean had dropped out of college, except it was a secret, he whispered to Sam. Dad had hurt his back in the spring and had just gotten worse since then. He’d been laid up and off work for months, so Dean had taken on extra shifts at the garage to make up the money. 

“They flunked me,” he whispered to Sam. They were watching the TV in Sam’s room with the volume down real low. “You can’t tell Mom. She’ll be all disappointed, make that face. You know the one.” Sam looked at him and nodded. Dean grinned back at him, lazy and drunk and devil-may-care. “Yeah, and then she’d just call Dad and moan at him. And it’s not his fault. It was my decision. Anyway, college sucked. Working at the garage is much better. Cars are so cool, you know, the way they work, the way everything just runs together. It’s just – so cool.” 

Sam nodded again. They watched the TV in silence then Dean suddenly blurted out, “D’you remember how it used to be? Before the break-up? When we were still brothers?” 

“We are still brothers,” Sam said, shocked by Dean’s words. 

“Really? You think. Don’t really seem that way,” Dean answered, the words slurring together. 

He fell asleep only minutes later, sprawled across most of Sam’s bed. Sam watched him sleep, his long eyelashes fluttering, the light from the TV playing white and pretty over his face. His chest knotted up as he watched Dean breathe in and out and he felt sick and overwhelmingly sad. 

He didn’t see Dean again for five and a half years. Until now. 

 

**

 

Dean cooked spaghetti carbonara for dinner. Sam sat at the kitchen table and watched him. 

“Don’t those eggs need cooking separately?” he asked as he watched Dean pour the mixture of bacon, raw eggs and cheese over the cooked pasta. 

“Nah, the heat from the pasta will cook them,” Dean explained, not looking up from his ministrations. “You cook them separate and it ruins the dish, makes it too hard, like, rubbery.” He frowned and pulled out one spaghetti strand, sucking it into his mouth and biting off the long, slippery end. “Mmm, al dente. Just right.” He met Sam’s eyes with a smirk and turned to take a couple of deep pasta bowls from the cupboard by the stove. 

“I still can’t believe you can cook,” Sam said as he watched Dean grind pepper viciously over the mixed up noodles. 

“I kinda had to learn, you know,” he said. He gave another of those defensive, awkward shrugs Sam was becoming used to. “Anyway, I like it, it’s relaxing.” 

“No, it’s really not. It’s scary and frustrating,” said Sam. 

Dean laughed and brought the huge pan of pasta to the table, plonking it down next to the bowls. “Help yourself.” 

Sam opened the wine he’d brought with him, surprised to see Dean helping himself to a glass. There was a part of his brain that still expected his brother to only drink beer, to dismiss wine as girly or pretentious, but Dean seemed to enjoy drinking it. The spaghetti was good, surprisingly good, and he helped himself to a couple of servings to Dean’s obvious delight, the wine bottle getting gradually lower and lower as they exchanged news, carefully steering clear of the huge elephant in the room. Every so often the phone in the den would ring and Sam would see his brother’s fingers clench around his fork or his wineglass, his eyelashes flicker and lips press together. Then the answering machine would ping, picking up the message. Sam was grateful Dean didn’t seem to have one of those machines that were so prevalent on TV, the ones where you could hear the person on the other end leaving a message. He didn’t think he could sit through the condolences. 

They left the dishes in the sink and took the second bottle of wine through to the den. They sat on the floor as they’d always done as kids, the TV playing on low in the corner. 

“I’m, uh. I’m sorry I wasn’t around,” Sam said. 

“Why? You haven’t lived here for years. This isn’t your home anymore,” Dean answered matter-of-factly. 

“No, I mean, he was my father too. I should’ve been there, not let you deal with everything on your own. Dean, you dropped out of college for him.” 

“Dude, I never would’ve finished college anyway. Dad was just an excuse.” Dean’s fingers were playing with the cork, thumb absently picking at the rubbery wood. “That was my decision. And you – well, you got your own life, your own thing, travelling around Europe and all that. Anyway, you know how he was. He wouldn’t have wanted you to see him like that.” 

Sam bowed his head, his chest clenching up with that familiar, guilty ache. Of course it had been okay for Dean to see their father like that. But not him, not Sammy. There had always been an extra barrier, an extra distance between him and Dad. And the thing was, the thing he hated admitting to himself: he was grateful for it. He was grateful that he’d been in Europe when it had all come to a head, grateful that he’d had a convenient excuse to not be there with Dean, sitting by his father’s deathbed as he slipped away. What the hell would he and Dad have said to each other? They’d struggled enough to find things to talk about when Dad was well and healthy, never mind when the poor guy was too sick to form sentences. 

No, it was probably better this way. After all, Dean was the one Dad had loved best; Dean was the one who’d nursed him for so long. Dean deserved to be there for him. 

“No,” he said quietly, “no, I guess not.” 

“So, then,” Dean said, his voice equally soft. He raised his head, eyes meeting Sam’s. Sam swallowed, staring at the way Dean’s lashes fringed his face, the way they cast soft, spidery shadows over his high cheekbones. Dean looked older, his face harder, more chiselled, some of the old softness had seeped away, but he was still the best looking person Sam had ever met. It was something weird to think about his brother, but he’d always thought it. It seemed even more obvious now, like Dean had fully grown into his looks. 

“I got something for you,” he said suddenly. He reached for his messenger bag, dragged it across the floor from where he’d dumped it by the couch. “Like, a souvenir. I picked it up in London.” 

“You got me a present?” Dean sounded unreasonably excited, scrambling to a sitting position, his knee knocking against the empty bottle of wine and sending it to the rug with a dull plonk. 

“Yeah, I saw it on this stall in Camden market. It’s supposed to be for protection, it’s supposed to be lucky. It’s probably bullshit, but I just wanted to get it for you.” 

He took the wrapped package out of the pocket of his bag, feeling self-conscious and stupid as he held it out to Dean. Dean wasn’t going to like it and he wasn’t even sure why he’d even bought it in the first place. Objectively speaking, it was pretty ugly and kinda weird as necklaces or amulets or medallions went, but the instinct had been so strong when he’d clapped eyes on it, his brain immediately flashing to Dean. 

He held his breath as Dean unwrapped the tissue paper and tossed it aside. It fluttered to the rug in a pinky-white cloud and Dean stared down at the charm resting in the middle of his palm. He raised his head, blinked at Sam. 

“Thanks, Sam, I love it,” he said. His voice was a little hoarse, the expression in his eyes sad. “I.” He hesitated, licked his lips, pushed out a breath. “Jesus, dude. You didn’t have to.” He passed the cord over his head. The dull brass charm glinted against the faded black of his t-shirt, resting just between his pecs. “I didn’t get you anything,” he said finally. “I didn’t even think about it.” 

Sam swallowed, his throat felt tight and he felt ludicrously close to crying. “You didn’t have to. It wasn’t. I mean, it was a souvenir.” He ducked his head, pushed his hand against his forehead, his fingers into his hair. 

“We need more drink,” Dean muttered. 

Sam watched his brother get to his feet and stagger off towards the kitchen. 

“I think we got some whisky left! That okay with you?” he called out. “We drank all the beer and wine.” He emerged in the doorway, holding out a dusty looking bottle. “I think this was Dad’s. We should. We should definitely drink it. Don’t you think? I mean, he ain’t gonna reem my ass for finishing it.” 

Sam wet his lips, nodded. “Uh, yeah, okay.” 

“Right.” Dean nodded and reappeared with two glasses and the bottle. He plopped down onto the rug again, placed the glasses in front of them. He poured the liquor sloppily, lifted his glass and peered at the amber liquid. “We should probably have this with ice but I don’t think we got any.” 

“It’s fine,” Sam said. He took a sip, shuddered as the harsh, foul tasting liquid slid down his throat. “Jesus, that’s disgusting.” 

Dean snorted, his expression lighting up for a second. “Pussy,” he said, taking a swig himself and making a face as he swallowed in turn. Sam raised an eyebrow and Dean pushed out a breath. “Okay, you’re right, it is disgusting.” He took another swig, swilled it around his mouth before swallowing again. “Mom, she, uh, she told me about you and that guy. Bryan, wasn’t it?” 

Sam hesitated, felt his stomach lurch, a prickle of sweat under his armpits. He swallowed, wet his lips again. He could feel Dean watching him and he felt suddenly sick. He stared forcefully at the rug, at the ball of tissue paper that had contained the amulet he’d given Dean. 

“What did she say?” he said. 

“It’s okay,” Dean said. “I ain’t gonna judge you, Sammy. I, uh.” He paused, and Sam heard him reach to refill his glass, the clink of the bottle against the side of his glass. “I’ve been with guys too, you know.” 

“You’ve what?” He snapped his head up, blinked at his brother. Dean was replacing the screw cap on the bottle. “But you were with – what’s her name – Annette?” 

“Dude, that was over ages ago.” 

“But with guys. Are you serious? You’re gay?” 

“No. No, not gay,” Dean said. He raised his glass, looked at Sam over it. His mouth was twisted into a wry sort of shape. “I don’t know what you’d call it, but I know I’m not entirely straight.” He paused, smirked slightly, arched an eyebrow. “I like dick way too much to be straight.” 

Sam was staring at him, disbelieving. He felt like he was seeing a brand new Dean. Dean liked girls; Dean talked about girls all the time. Dean had had posters on his wall, Christy Turlington and Eva Herzagovena. Dean had liked that wonderbra ad so much they’d taken a different route to school for a month so he could drool over the billboard poster. Dean worked in a garage and liked drinking beer and playing poker and watching sports. Dean had been Dad’s perfect son. Dean couldn’t like guys. 

He’d thought that Dean would never understand, that Dean would look down on him if he knew. Oh he was pretty sure that Dean would never say anything out loud. He wasn’t an asshole, he wasn’t that kind of guy, but he’d look at Sam differently. He knew that Dean loved him, just like he loved Dean. They were family after all, but they weren’t friends. They barely knew each other. They were strangers who happened to share some of the same DNA and the same last name. But maybe he’d underestimated his brother, maybe he’d gotten all that wrong. Obviously, they did have one thing common. 

“Are you gay then?” Dean asked. His tone was warm, no hint of recrimination, but genuine interest. 

“Yes,” Sam said. 

Dean nodded thoughtfully. He took a sip on his drink, swallowed, then looked him fully in the face. “And you know that’s okay? It doesn’t matter to me. We’re family, Sam. That’s never gonna change.” 

Sam nodded. He could feel tears gathering at the back of his eyes. He felt terrified of blinking, knowing that they could spill free and roll down his cheeks. He bowed his head, stared down at the intricate weave of the rug. His glass felt sticky and warm in his hand, his fingertips like they were glued to it. He thought suddenly of why he was here, that they were here to bury his father. He hadn’t cried once, not since Dean had given him the news. Dean must’ve cried. Dean had loved Dad more than anything. 

“Sam,” Dean said, and he was shuffling forward on the rug. “Sammy.” 

Sam lifted his head, his eyes were blurry with tears and Dean’s face was hovering really close to his own, the white rectangles of the TV screen reflected in Dean’s eyes. He cupped Dean’s cheek, his thumb against Dean’s soft sticky lips, and then he was leaning in close, thinking that Dean was beautiful, that Dean’s face was beautiful, that Dean was the best looking person he’d ever known, and he was leaning in and his lips were on Dean’s. 

Dean didn’t pull away. He sucked in a breath and held it, held the pose like he was being photographed. He felt different to all the other guys Sam had touched. He felt better. 

“Sam?” Dean said, the sibilant sound vibrated against Sam’s lips. 

Sam flinched, jerked his head back. “I. I - I’m sorry. God, I’m so sorry.” 

Dean blinked at him, he looked bewildered. Shell-shocked, Sam thought. Dean raised his fingers to his lips, touched them, still staring at Sam. 

“I’m gonna take a leak,” Sam stuttered and he stumbled to his feet and fled. 

He went straight to the guest room. He collapsed on the bed, not even bothering to remove the suitcase from where Dean had dumped it earlier on top of the bed. He buried under the covers still fully clothed, turned his face into the pillow and squeezed his eyes shut. Every muscle was tense, fingers white-knuckled in the pillow-case. He waited for Dean to come up and confront him, demand to know what the hell he’d been thinking, what the hell was wrong with him. 

Dean never came, and eventually, painfully, he fell asleep. 

The next day, they pretended nothing had happened. He helped Dean clean the house, helped him bake quiches and cakes and vol-au-vants for the wake. 

In the afternoon, they buried John Winchester. 

The day after that, Dean drove Sam to the airport and he caught a plane back to California.


	2. Chapter 2

_June 2007…_

_…two years later._

The first thing Sam thought as he pulled up beside no. 2013 was that he’d gotten the wrong address because this house… this wasn’t a house, this was a freaking mansion. Not that he could even see that much of it, just a hint of white walls through the tall, wrought-iron gates and thick trees lining a pebbled driveway as it swept its way up towards the front of the house. 

He got out of the car and approached the gates. There was a security system fitted and a video camera that immediately zeroed in on him with a robotic, whirring sound. He pressed the buzzer. 

“Yeah?” came the voice from the other end. 

“Dean?” 

There was a pause, a burst of static, then Dean’s voice again: “Sam? That you?” 

“Yeah, it’s me.” 

“You’re two hours late, I thought you weren’t coming.” 

“Yeah, I, uh, there was this work thing, I couldn’t get away for ages. In the end I had to tell them it was a family emergency. Sorry about that.” He trailed off lamely, cleared his throat. “You gonna let me in?” 

The line went quiet and Sam walked back to his car as the gates slowly started to open, as majestic and ponderous as a canal. He started the engine and drove through the gates and up the wide, sweeping driveway. Gravel stones sprayed out under his wheels as he pulled up alongside a red Mazarati. His dirty Prius looked like a poor relation next to the other cars: a silver 4x4 Mercedes, a dark green classic Porsche and the familiar black shine of his brother’s 67 Chevy Impala, their father’s old pride and joy. 

He locked his car and walked towards the Impala, feet crunching on the small stones. He placed one hand on the warm metal trunk. 

“Sam.” 

He jerked his head up. Dean was standing on the stone flag steps that led up to the main entrance of the house. He was holding a wine glass in one hand, the other held up against his face to shade his eyes from the glare of the sun. Sam stared at him, feeling suddenly self-conscious, aware of the rumpled suit he’d put on that morning for the client meeting, of how his hair had plastered to his forehead and neck with sweat during the long drive. He felt grubby and scruffy and over-dressed; a direct contrast to Dean who looked like he’d just stepped off the set of an Abercrombie & Fitch commercial in his artfully distressed jeans and purposefully faded blue tee, his hair managing to attain that idealised form of bed-head that was nothing like Sam’s actual bed-head. The last time Sam had seen his brother, Dean had been wearing jeans with holes in the knees that hadn’t been put there on purpose, and a t-shirt that was faded through over-washing in an attempt to get out the black grease and engine oil that had always stained his clothes. But Dean wasn’t a mechanic anymore. He was a model now. He got paid to look good and wear nice clothes. Sam shouldn’t feel surprised by it. 

Dean stepped down off the steps and Sam noticed for the first time that he was wearing the amulet Sam had given him the day before their father’s funeral. It was hanging around his neck, the brass charm winking in the bright sunlight. Sam stared at it then slowly lifted his eyes to his brother’s face. “I feel overdressed,” he said. 

“No,” Dean said. “You’ll do.” He paused and took a swig of wine, contemplating Sam over the rim of the glass. “You going to come in, then?” 

There was a note of challenge in his voice, the old, goading, big brother tone, and Sam felt himself relax a little, discomfort seeping away. This was still Dean, still his brother, no matter how different the surroundings, no matter how different Dean looked. 

He followed Dean inside. They fell into step as they crossed the huge, marble-tiled hall, their footsteps echoing as if they’d just stepped into a church. He paused beside a stained glass window – seriously, a fucking stained glass window – and shook his head. 

“Wow, Dean, this place is incredible.” 

Dean was staring up at the window, an unreadable expression on his face. Slowly he turned his head, eyes meeting Sam’s. “You ain’t seen nothing yet,” he said.

Sam huffed out a laugh and saw the answering crinkle in his brother’s eyes, the smile edging at the corner of his mouth. 

“This,” Dean raised his glass, indicating the stained glass window, “this was imported from Italy. For real.” He turned on his heels, started to walk away again. “I’m sure Lester will tell you all about it. He usually does.” 

Dean led him through a big, wooden door at the end of the hall, through a room that seemed to be a library, old-fashioned bookshelves filling every inch of wall-space that wasn’t a window. Sam stopped in the middle of the room and slowly turned around, eyes raking over the hundreds, no, thousands of books. There had to be some first editions, it was that sort of a library, the sort that only existed in costume dramas. 

Dean slanted him a look. “Man, you’re like totally creaming your pants right now.” 

Sam made a face. “You’re so gross.” 

Dean laughed and strode towards the door on the other side of the room. “This way. Everybody’s in the conservatory. Don’t ask me, I think it’s a British thing.” 

The conservatory was a huge, airy, stone-flagged greenhouse of a room, tacked onto the back of the house, and filled with enough foliage to give the impression of eating outside in a forest glade. There were pots of enormous towering plants, vines and creepers entwined through the glass panels and smaller pots of bright-coloured shrubs ranged across the floor at strategic intervals. He followed Dean, his dress shoes ringing out comically loud on the stone flags, feeling even more self-conscious of his crumpled office-wear, to a small clearing amongst the plants where a large, round, wrought-iron table was sagging under the remains of an extremely big lunch. There were half-eaten bowls of tropical fruit salads and enough pies and cakes and desserts to make him feel diabetic by association. 

Two men and a woman were sitting around the table, voices and laughter ringing out, glass chinking as wine-goblets were topped up. 

“You’re back,” said one of the guys, tilting his head back, eyes piercing as they landed first on Dean and then on Sam with frank, open contemplation. “So, this is the brother.” 

“Uh, yeah, hi,” said Sam, glancing between Dean who was serenely taking another sip of wine, and the three others, all staring at him in that same open fascination, “I’m Sam. Sorry I’m so late, there was this meeting.” 

“Spare us the details!” cried the guy, rising to his feet and beckoning at Sam to take the seat beside him. “Sit down.” 

“Oh, right, yeah, thanks.” He gave the guy a brief smile and slid into the seat indicated, seeing Dean slip into a seat on the other side of the table. 

“Wine?” enquired the guy – Lester – Sam thought, that’s Lester. He recognised him from photos he’d seen in magazines and online, and from the wedding pictures of course, from the one sitting on Mom’s mantelpiece. So, that was him, that was Dean’s billionaire husband, the famous Lester, not that he’d bothered to introduce himself. He probably thought it wasn’t necessary. “No, wait, no wine! You’re driving of course. Definitely no wine!” 

“Dude, c’mon, he can have one glass,” said Dean with a lazy half-smile, heavy-lidded gaze flicking Lester’s way. 

Lester hesitated as his gaze met Dean’s. There was a flicker of something in his eyes, a twitch of his mouth. He looked almost unsteady for a moment, shaken, then he laughed abruptly, snatched up the bottle from the ice bucket and retrieved a glass for Sam. 

“Well, I suppose he could have just one. After all, this is the Winchester vintage. It would be… fitting.” 

“The what?” asked Sam. 

“The Winchester vintage,” said Lester. He poured a generous glug into Sam’s glass and passed him the bottle. “From my own estates.” 

“Seriously?” Sam’s jaw dropped as he surveyed the glinting, golden liquid. “You named a wine vintage after us?” 

“After me,” corrected Dean. “Drink up, Sammy.” He tilted his own glass Sam’s way. 

Sam raised his eyebrows at his brother, but he took a tentative sip. It was… nice. Hell, it was really nice. He wasn’t exactly a wine connoisseur, but he could tell that this was good quality. He tilted the bottle Lester had handed him, better to read the label, and saw the watercolour picture of a vine, and the elegant lettering: _Winchester Estates_. Holy shit. 

“It’s good, isn’t it?” said Lester in a confiding sort of tone. “I directed the blending myself.” 

“Yes, it’s, uh, it’s really nice.” 

On the other side of the table, Dean was idly staring out one of the windows into the gardens outside, twisting the stem of his glass between his fingertips, his platinum wedding band glinting in the soft afternoon sunlight that drifted and flitered through the glass panes. Sam forced his attention away from his brother and took the opportunity to watch his new brother-in-law. Lester wasn’t handsome, his face too angular, nose too long and aquiline, his eyes maybe a little beady as they darted between his guests. He was tall, maybe even an inch or so taller than Dean, with fine-boned hands that gestured expansively when he talked. His eyes were a cool grey colour, his hair a faded shade that was somewhere between dark blond and light brown, some grey coming in around the temples. The most attractive thing about him was his voice, rich and deep, an almost purr with that cultured British accent that fit into the lush, elegant, masterpiece theatre setting. He was holding the conversation again, jumping from subject to subject with deft confidence and intelligence. 

He’s charismatic, Sam thought, and he could see the attraction now, an attraction that hadn’t been at all obvious in photographs. But now after meeting him in person, he could see what Dean might have seen in this guy, why he’d been persuaded to say yes, (apart from the obvious reason of course). 

“I have to say, you don’t look very much alike,” said the woman, speaking up for the first time once the conversation had lulled, Lester shutting up long enough to take another serving of English trifle. Her voice was rich and musical, and like her male companion, like Lester, like Dean even, she looked like she’d just stepped out of an aspirational lifestyle magazine. 

“That’s because we’re not really brothers,” Dean said. “He was abandoned on our doorstop. My Mom took him in ‘cause she felt sorry for him.” 

“Really?” asked the woman

“No, not really,” said Dean with a big, disarming smile. Sam repressed the urge to laugh, eyes catching Dean’s. Dean got up from the table. “Sam, you want to take a walk?” 

Sam exhaled with relief, nodded, “Okay, okay.” 

Dean came round the table towards Sam, dropped one hand briefly to Lester’s shoulder, giving it a faint squeeze. Lester tilted his head back, hand going up to curl around Dean’s wrist. “See you later.” 

Dean took him on a different route, through a couple of rooms with high ceilings, oil paintings and antique furniture worthy of the freaking Whitehouse. One of the rooms even had a grand piano on a dais. Dean paused beside it, placed his hand on the lid. 

“Lester wants me to learn how to play. He plays, you know? He’s really good.” 

“I didn’t know,” Sam said. “But then, I don’t think I know much about him at all.” 

Dean glanced at him, a flicker in his eyes as he nodded. “Don’t worry; you’ll get to know him. He’s very keen on getting to know _you_. You won’t be able to escape.” He pivoted on his heels, heading towards a huge pair of French windows looking out onto a rolling, landscaped lawn. “C’mon, let’s go outside.” 

The sun was hot and bright after the chilled quiet of the house. Sam paused in the middle of the lawn and looked back over his shoulder at the house rising up behind him, enormous and imposing. 

“Seriously, Dean, this place is amazing. How old is it?” 

Dean shrugged. “It’s not that old, or so Lester always says. His family place in England is eighteenth century apparently. This was built in the twenties for some huge silent movie star, but I don’t know much about it. You’ll have to ask him. He’ll totally love you if you start asking him questions about the house. He’s obsessed with the house.” He made a face, but it was a fond, indulgent sort of an expression that Sam remembered from when Dean used to talk about Dad. “C’mon, if we head down this way, I can show you the lake.” 

There was a lake, and a boathouse. They had a boathouse, a private boathouse with actual real boats in it and their own lake to sail them on, all in this exclusive corner of California. Sam knew that Lester was rich, _extremely_ rich, he’d read the profiles in _Forbes_ and _Fortune_ and the _LA Times_ , seen his name in the Forbes 400, along with the eight figure estimation of his total wealth. Hell, Sam had even gone out and bought five copies of _The Advocate_ when the interview with Lester had come out three months ago in which Lester had talked extensively about his recent marriage, Dean’s modelling career, his newest business venture, and the $2m donation he’d made in his and Dean’s names to one of the city’s AIDS hospices. There’d been pictures too: Lester in his office in downtown LA, Lester and Dean posed for the paparazzi at the California Business Personality of the Year Awards (Lester didn’t win), a couple of Dean’s modelling shots for some fashion brand Sam didn’t recognise, and the big PR shot of the two of them handing over the $2m dollar cheque to the grateful hospice staff. Sam had been prepared to be impressed by his brother’s new, rags-to-riches lifestyle, and it wasn’t like he was unaccustomed to hanging out with affluent people – at Stanford, at work – but still, none of that was stopping him from gaping at his surroundings like a kid on his first trip to the zoo. 

“He likes people to think that he made it all himself,” Dean said conversationally, the words pulling Sam out of his thoughts. He blinked and watched Dean come to a halt under one of the low hanging willow trees. He grabbed at a branch, tugged it down. He peeled off the leaves, methodical and destructive. “The money, I mean. But his mom’s family made a killing in margarine between the wars. Lester got all of it when his grandfather died, though he’s made more since, a lot more. Mergers, acquisitions, investments, hedge funds, God, I don’t know. None of it makes any sense to me. You understand it, right, Sammy? You’re the economics genius in the family.” He paused, shrugged, “Apart from Lester of course.” 

They went quiet for a moment, the silence dragging a little. Dean cleared his throat, waved a hand at him. “Dude, seriously. Take off that damn jacket. You’re making me feel uncomfortable just looking at you.” Sam sighed but he shucked off his dark suit jacket gratefully, unbuttoning the cuffs of his dress shirt and rolling them up his forearms. He hooked the jacket over his shoulder and raised his eyebrows at his brother. “That’s better,” Dean said. He was watching Sam again, gaze running up and down his body in the same frank, open contemplation as Lester and his friends. “You look different. You finally grew up I guess. My little brother, all grown up.” 

Sam felt himself blush. “You look different too,” he said truthfully. 

Dean gave a faint smile. “It’s money. I have money now, so much money. I can buy whatever I want whenever I want. It’s weird.” 

Not your money, Lester’s money, Sam thought, though that wasn’t entirely fair. He had no idea what sort of money Dean made as a male model, but it was probably a hell of a lot more than he used to make as a mechanic. He remembered Mom saying how Dad had died with debts and barely any life insurance. Dean had been forced to sell the house in Lawrence, their childhood home, to cover the medical bills and that still hadn’t been enough. The billionaire husband and amazing new career had happened at exactly the right time. 

“So, how’s the modelling going?” he asked. “I guess it must be really different to working in a garage.” 

“Yeah, it’s different alright,” Dean said. He was staring down at the branch gripped in his fingers. He peeled off a handful of leaves; let them fall through his spread fingers, fluttering slowly to the ground. “It’s going great, I guess. I’m getting plenty of work. I’m probably working even more now than I used to. At least it seems that way.” He broke off and frowned, making a face as he shredded another hanging branch. 

“I saw that perfume campaign, that was pretty huge,” Sam said. 

“Fragrance, Sammy, for guys it’s called fragrance,” Dean glanced over at him, mouth crooked up into a small smirk. “Though, God knows why, just makes it sound even more gay. And before you say something, I’m allowed to say that – I’m married to a guy.” 

Sam shook his head, about to protest, but Dean was smiling back at him, unashamed and unrepentant, so Sam decided it was probably easier to let it go. “So, what else have you done?” he asked. 

“Oh, all kinds of shit,” Dean said with a shrug. “Cars, watches, kitchens – which was pretty weird – uh, luggage, ski equipment, golf clubs, jewellery, apparently I have good hands and wrists. I actually did this shoot where they had me working on an engine, all greased up with lots of fancy angles of my hands on the engine. It was for this designer jewellery brand so I was wearing this huge friggin’ ring and this chunky watch. The photographer was impressed by what a _natural_ I was with the engine. ‘Course I didn’t tell them that there’s no goddamn way any mechanic who knows anything about his job would be working on an engine wearing crap like that. But whatever. Fashion, man.” He rolled his eyes, chuffed out a breath. “Car was awesome, though, a vintage Jag XKE. Fucking gorgeous, Sammy. I’d totally get one if it didn’t feel like I was cheating on my baby.” 

Sam snorted and shot him a look; Dean was still smiling, looking pleased with himself. “So, what’re you doing next? What’s your next gig?” 

“Fashion spread for _Details_. Me and four other guys, various brands, designer and high street.” He made a face. “It’s in, like, this used scrap yard in Van Nuys. Very _derilicte._ ” 

Sam laughed. “Seriously?” 

“Yup. But, you know. I can’t complain. The money’s good – for what it is.” He huffed out a breath, shooting Sam a look from the corner of his eyes. “There was this one shoot, for this gay charity calendar. Jesus, I still have nightmares about it. Me in these tiny Speedos and a goddamn cowboy hat for freaking hours on this freezing cold set. By the time they were done, man, my nipples could cut glass.” 

“Poor Dean, the things you have to go through.” 

“Damn straight.” 

“But, you like it, right? You’re enjoying it?” 

Dean didn’t say anything for a long moment. Sam watched him unlock his fingers around from the branch. It sprung back into place, the tree shaking, blossom and pollen and leaves falling and scattering, landing on Dean’s shoulders and hair. He ran a hand irritably through his hair, flicked away the debris. 

“Dean?” 

Dean sighed, scrunched up his face. “Jesus, I don’t know. I mean, it’s so freaking weird, the whole thing. And I just – I just keep thinking about what Dad would say, if he knew what I was doing for a living.” He glanced quickly at Sam, his mouth twisting into a wry, self-deprecating shape. 

“Don’t,” Sam said with a frown. “Dean, don’t think like that. You know Dad would be happy that you’re happy.” 

“Yeah, but a male model, Sammy? He didn’t raise me for that. You know what he used to say about having a trade, about working with your hands being the only real, honest work for a guy.” Dean shook his head, pushed out a breath. He pressed his lips together, looked away from Sam, back towards the house. 

Sam stared at him, surprised by Dean’s words. His brother had always been so closed off to him. They’d never really talked about _anything_ , not him and Dean. The nearest they’d ever gotten was that one time, the night before Dad’s funeral, the disastrous visit when Sam had lost his mind and done that thing he never thought about, the one he’d tried so hard to repress over the past two years. But then again, who else did Dean have to talk to about Dad? Dean lived in California now, hundreds of miles away from his old life and the old friends who had known their father. Lester had never met Dad, and Mom, well, that was never going to happen. There was only Sam. This was something he and Dean could share. The thought made him feel warm inside and he wanted to say something, put in words what he’d always believed: Dad had loved Dean, Dad might’ve been contrary and stubborn and a fucking ornery bastard, but he had loved Dean. He would really only care about Dean’s happiness. 

But before he could say any of that, Dean spoke up again, “C’mon, we should go back. He’ll be wondering where I am.”

 

**

 

Dean met Lester while Sam was doing his internship in Paris, only a month after Dad’s funeral. Lester walked into the garage in Lawrence with his broken, vintage Porsche and begged Dean to fix it. Dean, ever appreciative of a quality ride and the vast amounts of cash Lester had been willing to spend to get the car fixed in as short a time as possible, had worked through the night to get the job finished. When Lester turned up the next day at 7am, he was bursting with gratitude. And other feelings. 

“He called me the following day,” Dean told Sam with a lazy smile. “Told me he couldn’t stop thinking about me. It was kinda a head-fuck.” 

“I was bewitched,” Lester put in. “I’d never seen anything more exquisite. I’m talking about the car of course, though Dean was okay looking too I suppose.” 

“Yeah, whatever, he was totally my bitch,” Dean confided, smirk curling at the corner of his mouth. He tipped his head back to look at Sam. His eyes were bright, patches of pink across his cheekbones. The light through the windows was playing in his hair, riffling at the dark gold threaded through with the light brown. There was still pollen in his hair and on his shoulders, a small fragment of a blossom caught between the neck of his t-shirt and his skin. 

“I suppose I was,” said Lester matter-of-factly. 

Dean made a face at him. “You know it.” He turned back to Sam. “He’s one smooth-talking bastard. And you know me, man, I can’t say no to that kinda flattery.” 

“Lucky for me,” said Lester. He got up from his seat, moved around the back of the couch to rest one hand on Dean’s shoulder. His forefinger brushed against the nape of Dean’s neck, through the soft stubble in slow, caressing movements. “I’ve got that call. You know that call.” 

“Oh, _that_ call,” Dean said. “Okay.” 

Lester turned his attention to Sam, smiled apologetically. “Yes. Sorry. Business calls.” He waved his hand, the other still resting proprietarily on Dean’s shoulder, stroking the side of his face. “It was really good meeting you, Sam. You need to come back.” He looked down at Dean. “My love, you need to make sure your brother comes back. He’s far too attractive to not come back.” 

Dean laughed, a sharp, amused, cutting sound. “Of course he is. And yes, he will come back. Right, Sammy?” 

Sam could feel the blush high on his cheeks, the blatant scrutiny from Lester and Dean making his skin prickle. “Yeah, of course. I mean, we’re family.” 

“Right,” said Dean, “so we are.” 

Dean walked him out to the front drive, their shoes crunching on the gravel as they approached Sam’s car. 

“Dude, what is this? A Prius? A freaking Prius?” 

“Shut up, Dean, some of us actually give a crap about the environment,” he protested. “This does fifty miles to the gallon, what kind of mileage do you get? You ever think about how many trees you kill when you get in that thing?” He jerked his head towards Dad’s old Chevy Impala. 

“Actually no, no I don’t. I’ve never once thought about that. What I do think about is classic 60s design, 385 horsepower and just how damn awesome I look when I drive it.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” 

“Hey, don’t be a hater, man, it doesn’t look good on you.” 

“Shut up.” 

“Make me.” Dean raised an eyebrow, smirking as he met Sam’s eyes. 

Sam felt the breath catch in his chest, his skin tingle. A second passed, then another, and another. The tension swelled. Sam watched Dean swallow, tracked the bob of his Adam’s apple, his eyes catching on the leather cord around his neck. 

“You’re wearing it,” he said. 

Dean blinked, didn’t say anything. 

“The – necklace.” 

“Amulet,” Dean corrected, his voice a little hoarse. “Necklaces are for chicks.” 

Sam smiled. “Of course.” He reached out, hesitant and uncertain, brushed a fingertip against the brass charm. He could feel the heat of his brother’s skin underneath. The metal felt warm, it was so close to Dean’s body, taking on Dean’s own warmth. “But you wore it.” 

“I wear it a lot,” Dean said. 

“Really?” He lifted his eyes from the charm, stared into his brother’s face. The moment held, it felt like years before Dean answered, feeling the word out, shaping his mouth around it like he was savouring it. 

“Yes.” 

“Even when you and Lester are—“ 

“Dude, no!” Dean protested and laughed. The moment – whatever it was – dissolved. Sam took a tiny step back, relieved and disappointed, certain that he had missed something. 

“Oh. Well, that’s probably wise. I mean, if it hits you in the face when you’re about to...” He was blushing again, he could feel it, and feel Dean’s eyes on him, seeing him blush. Any moment now, Dean was going to call him on it. But Dean didn’t. Instead he shook his head, shoved him in the shoulder, all big brother manliness. “Go on. You should go. Long drive back to the city.” 

 

**

 

“You should’ve seen it. It was like something out of a freaking lifestyle magazine. Like a Great Gatsby fantasy come to life,” Sam said. 

“Hmm, what?” Craig raised his head lazily from the pillow, took a drag on the joint smoking between his fingers. 

Sam dug his foot into Craig’s bare calf, toenails scratching against his leg hair. “You haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said.” 

“Yeah, yeah, sure I have. Your brother, who’s a male model. And his husband, who’s a billionaire. And their huge friggin’ mansion in the hills.” He took a drag on the joint, held the smoke in before slowly releasing it in a flat white stream. He blinked, eyes red and watery. “So, he’s hot, right? Your brother? Gotta be hot if he’s a male model. I’ve fucked a few male models.” 

“Yeah, right, sure you have,” Sam scoffed. He pried the joint out from between Craig’s fingers and regarded him through a stream of smoke. 

He’d met Craig about six months ago on a night out at _Dreamz_. He’d taken him home and they’d kept each other awake all night in a blaze of sex and pot. A couple of weeks later it had happened again, and then again. Now it was a regular no-strings-attached-sex-only thing. Sam wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, and if he was, it wouldn’t be someone like Craig. Not that Craig didn’t have some redeeming qualities. He gave amazing head for one thing, and he was kinda attractive in a scrawny, squinty way with dirty blond hair, watery blue eyes and permanent scruff on his chin. He was also a trained and surprisingly professional EMT which had been revealed one night about three months ago when he’d saved the life of some stupid, underage kid OD’ing on crystal. Sam had watched Craig treat him, feeling both shocked and oddly aroused by Craig’s professional expertise. 

“Not much going on up here,” Craig continued, pressing his finger against the side of his head. “You know, that cliché’s true.” 

“What?” 

“Male models. They’re all kinda dumb. At least the ones I’ve fucked.” 

“Dean’s not like that. He’s smart,” Sam said. He took a deep suck on the joint, felt the smoke crowd into his lungs. His eyes were watering and he blinked, then blinked again to get Craig’s face back into focus. “And he’s hot. Hottest person I’ve ever met.” 

“Really?” Craig nodded thoughtfully. “You think that about your own brother?” 

“Why not? It’s true,” Sam said defensively. He leaned over Craig’s body to grind out the joint in the ashtray on his nightstand. He turned back to Craig. “If you met him, you’d see what I mean.” 

“If you say so.” Craig slid languorously down the mattress until his face was hovering over Sam’s stomach. He grinned lazily, eyes all red and gaze out of focus. He dipped his head and dragged his tongue over the line of Sam’s abs, down to his navel. Sam shivered and dropped his hand onto the top of Craig’s head.

“Go on, suck me. Do it.” 

Craig raised his head, licked his lips ostentatiously. “Say please, Sam.” 

“Please. Oh please, I beg of you, Craig, please suck my dick.” 

Craig chuckled, the breath puffing against Sam’s thickening dick. “Whatever you say.” 

 

**

 

The white rose landed on top of the pile of shareholder reports with a soft thud. Sam jumped and snapped his head up, blinking in shock when he saw his brother standing in front of his desk, looking down at him.

“Hey, Sammy.” 

“Dean? What the hell are you doing here?” 

Dean chuckled, raised an eyebrow. “Nice way to greet your brother, man.” 

“I’m at work,” Sam said, confused, sitting up in his seat and looking around. 

As usual, all his co-workers were engrossed with their own work, babbling into their headsets or riveted to their computer screens. A few interested looks were flicked their way, but most looked away again, already distracted, moving onto something else. 

Sam returned his attention to Dean and almost did a double-take when he took in the entirety of his brother. “Uh, why are you dressed like that?” 

His brother was wearing a suit that was obviously shockingly expensive, perfectly tailored to his body. The pants, jacket and vest a deep navy pinstripe, the shirt a sharp, dazzling white against Dean’s tanned throat, his tie a skinny, dark burgundy silk. There was a pale cream boutonniere pinned to his lapel and his hair was smoothed down into a softer, more formal look. He was closely shaven, with none of his usual stubble. He looked very clean-cut and elegant and even more remote and removed from the old Dean than the version Sam had recently seen at that amazing mansion in the hills. 

“We’re attending a wedding,” Dean said. 

“We? Is Lester with you?” 

“Yup. He went to catch up with someone. Some South African dude, Joe Van der something.” 

“Mr Van der Horst?” Sam repeated. “He’s the boss. Like _the_ boss here, Dean. Does Lester know him?” 

“I guess. They went to Cambridge together apparently.” He leaned against Sam’s desk, parking his ass on one corner. He squinted at Sam’s computer screen. “What the hell is that?” 

“It’s a spreadsheet.” 

Dean gave him a look. “Well, yes, I can see that. But of what?” 

“Movements in the negative reserves against the profit and loss account.” 

“Come again?” 

Sam laughed. “Don’t worry. It’s very boring.” 

Dean nodded. “Yeah, sounds like.” He lifted his head, looked around him with frank curiosity. “So, this is where you work. This is you. It’s very—“ 

“Corporate?” Sam completed, raising his eyebrows as he caught his brother’s eye. “Snooty? Stuffy? Dull?” 

Dean grinned, bumped his elbow against Sam’s side. “If you say so. But, hey, you’re an executive, Sammy, my little brother. Makes me all warm and fuzzy inside, picturing you here, climbing the corporate ladder.” His eyes met Sam’s again, and Sam felt his cheeks heat up, a warm and fuzzy feeling flutter awake in his belly. 

“You’re such an idiot,” he said fondly. From the corner of his eye he saw Lester and Mr Van der Horst approaching them. Lester’s suit was pale and he was wearing an elegant boutonniere that matched Dean’s. He looked like a strange cross between a character from an Oscar Wilde play and an ice cream salesman. He was deep in conversation with Mr Van der Horst, the two of them chortling (there was no other word for it) together, obviously sharing some private joke. Around him he could see his co-workers’ heads pop up, gazes running interestedly over the boss and his visitor. Evidently, by the looks on some people’s faces, Lester’s identity hadn’t gone unnoticed. 

“There you are,” Lester said to Dean. Dean slid off the desk and Sam got to his feet, glancing surreptitiously at the big boss. He was pretty sure Van der Horst had no clue who the hell he was. “Joe, this is my husband, Dean.” Lester placed his hand on Dean’s arm as Dean leaned over to shake Van der Horst’s hand. “And this is Sam, his brother. He graduated top of his class at Stanford. His GPA was extremely impressive. He speaks fluent French too, you know, he’s a really talented boy, our Sam.” 

“Really?” Mr Van der Horst said. Sam cringed, darted a pleading look towards his brother, but Dean’s expression was carefully impassive. 

“He’s a rower,” Lester continued, “of course you can see that with those arms.” He dropped his hand onto Sam’s arm and squeezed his bicep. “Mmmm. How many years were you part of the crew for the Cardinals, Sam?” 

“Uh, um, three years,” Sam said, dropping his gaze to where Lester’s hand was wrapped around his bicep. He glanced at Dean again; Dean was looking amused, biting his lip as he followed the conversation. “Joe was a Blue,” Lester continued, “he was in the boat race. 82 and 83, wasn’t it?” He finally pulled his hand away from Sam with one last friendly grope of his arm. 

“It was,” Mr Van der Horst said, looking pleased. “Fancy you remembering that.” 

“Joe, how could I forget? We lost both years, of course, I remember that too.” 

Mr Van der Horst groaned. “Don’t remind me.” He turned his attention to Sam, looking interested. “You rowed for Stanford? That’s very impressive.” 

Sam shrugged, blushed. “Uh, yeah, I was just part of the team, an alternate really. I never made a regular place.” 

“Don’t be modest, Sam!” Lester said. Sam huffed out an awkward smile, feeling the blush rise higher. Mr Van der Horst was still watching him. 

“You work in David Cross’s team? I think I’ve seen you about.” 

“Yeah, yes, I do.” 

“And it’s Sam? Sam Winchester?” He held out his hand. Sam took it, gave it a firm shake, giving him his best smile. “Well, it’s nice to meet you formally.” 

“I hate to break this little reunion up,” Dean said, “but we should get going. We don’t want to miss the ceremony after all.” 

“Oh, of course, of course,” said Van der Horst. “I’ll walk you both out.” 

“Sam, until next time,” Lester announced grandly. 

Dean nodded at Sam, smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, before he turned and followed Lester and Van der Horst across the office. 

Sam let out a long, pained breath and sank down into his office chair. Lester and Van der Horst were deep in conversation again, Dean slightly behind them, his head bowed. Sam watched them step through the glass doors and into the elevator lobby. The rose Dean had dropped on his desk was still lying on top of the page of print-outs. He picked it up, twisting the stem in his fingers. He sniffed, catching the faint scent, and raised his eyes. The three of them were standing in front of the elevators, Lester and Van der Horst talking avidly, Dean a few paces behind. As Sam watched he saw his brother turn his head, look through the glass doors, across the office, towards Sam. Sam stared back, wishing he could make out Dean’s expression more clearly. He watched Dean turn away to shake Van der Horst’s hand, then he stepped inside the elevator alongside Lester.

 

**

 

Sam squinted at the horizon, focussing on the tiny speck of a flag flapping in the distance. There, he was supposed to get the ball there. He could do it. This time he would do it. Positive mental attitude: that was all he needed. The ball was going to land right where it was supposed to, in the middle of the green. Easy. He made a couple of practice swings, lined himself up, and took the shot. The small, white ball soared up into the air, whipped by the wind. He squinted, following it, heart rising hopefully. It started to drop – way too soon. His heart sank and he watched it plop down into a large patch of rough well short of where it should be. 

“Bad luck,” Greg said sympathetically. 

Sam snorted and gave his stepfather a look. “Don’t sound surprised. You know how much I suck at this game.” 

Greg chuckled and came forward to place his own ball on the tee. “I don’t know. I’m the eternal optimist, Sam. I keep hoping I’ll make a golfer of you one day.” 

Sam struck the ground with his club and scowled. “You won’t. It’s a stupid game.” 

Greg gave him a look – one of those unimpressed, fatherly looks – and straightened up. He rolled his shoulders a couple of times, then without a practice swing, he took the shot. It was neat, precise, the ball soaring into the air and landing onto the green. 

Sam sighed again and moved to grab hold of the caddy. “We should bet on how much I’ll lose by this time.” 

Greg clapped him on the shoulder and dropped his club into the caddy. They set off in the direction of Sam’s ball, the caddy bouncing and jostling as Sam tugged it through the grass. 

“Next time we should invite your brother. I know your mom would be very happy for the three of us to hang out,” Greg said. 

“Dean? Playing golf?” Sam frowned, he couldn’t really see it. 

“Oh yes, apparently he’s quite good. That first shoot he did was for some brand of clubs. He got quite into it after that. And Lester plays of course. In fact, I think they’re both members of one of those fancy clubs, one of those where half the members are celebrities. Perhaps I should suggest a four to them? What do you think?” 

“Great, more people to watch me make a total ass of myself,” Sam grumbled. 

Greg chuckled and gave him a fond look. “You set too high expectations for yourself, Sam. I’m always telling you that. You can do this, I know you can do it.” 

It was one of Greg’s catchphrases. _You can do it, Sam, I know you can do it._ Said to him when he was fourteen and struggling with his trig homework, said to him when he was seventeen and about to take the SAT’s, said to him before he interviewed for the job at Tandy  & Grey. And Greg had been right, every time. 

He could remember the first time he’d met Greg. Mom had moved out of the house in Lawrence a week after that awful day she and Dad told him and Dean about the breakup. She’d moved in with Greg and Sam had gone with her. He couldn’t remember anymore whether he’d ever been given a choice at the time. Probably not, eleven year olds don’t usually get to decide their own futures. Besides, given the choice, he would have always chosen to go with Mom. He’d always been Mom’s little boy in the same way that Dean had been Dad’s model son. Their family had always divided neatly that way. 

He remembered Mom pulling her car up outside a nice house with a perfect lawn (at lot nicer than their own). Greg had come out of the house to greet them, wearing just his socks. Sam had stared through the passenger window down at Greg’s feet, watching his white sports socks get wet as he stood on the damp tarmac. He’d sat in the car and watched Mom and Greg intently, fascinated to see his mom interact with this guy who wasn’t Dad. Greg had kissed Mom on the cheek then he’d come forward and knocked on the passenger window and waved at Sam, grinning widely. Sam had clicked off his seatbelt and gotten out of the car. Greg had introduced himself to Sam, holding out his hand and they’d shaken, like real grown-ups. 

Over dinner, Greg had told Sam what he did for a living, using the long, complicated, medical terminology that scientists use. His speciality was haematology, specifically, the treatment of non-Hodgkin lymphomas. Blood cancers, he’d told Sam with a grin. He was moving to California because he’d gotten a great new job in a private hospital out there. “We’re going to cure cancer. Well, one of the blood cancers at least,” he’d announced with a smile. After dinner, they’d watched TV together while Mom unpacked, and Sam had found himself opening up, talking about his favourite classes in school, about his collection of fossils and meteorites, about his fascination with space and planets, and how he and his best friend, Aiden, were building a model space rocket in Physics Club. Greg had listened carefully, interjecting and suggesting improvements to the design, and Sam had thought about his father, about how Dad only ever talked about cars or football or softball, about how Dad never even knew he was a member of the Physics Club. 

“Aha! Here it is!” 

Sam pulled himself out of his memories and turned to look at his stepfather. Greg was straightening up, his foot hovering over Sam’s golf ball. 

“Are you ready?” Greg asked. 

Sam sighed manfully and pulled a club out of the caddy. “I suppose so.” 

“That’s my boy,” Greg said. He stepped away. “Remember: you can do this, Sam.” 

“I can do this,” Sam repeated. He walked over towards the ball and lined up the shot.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean’s call came through to Sam’s work phone, a transfer from switchboard, Lorraine announcing Dean’s name with an irritable tone. 

“We’re having a party,” Dean announced. 

“Another one?” 

“Lester likes parties.” 

“I’m beginning to see that. But you don’t.” He leaned back in his chair, stared at the spreadsheet winking at him on his computer screen. He tapped his mouse button to minimise it, stared at his inbox instead, all those unread emails with their insinuating bold text. 

“Sure I do. Fancy drinks and fancy canapés and making conversation with lots of people I don’t know. What’s not to like?” 

Sam hesitated. He wasn’t sure if his brother was joking or not, but Dean seemed to expect a response so he said, “Right. Sure, Dean.” 

“I’m a people person, Sammy, you know that.” 

Sam smiled. He wondered where Dean was calling from. He glanced down at his phone, but it was just the switchboard number staring back at him. Dean was probably at home, that amazing, lavish mansion. Perhaps he was outside, staring down towards the lake and the boathouse. It was hot outside so he’d just be wearing jeans or board shorts, a t-shirt, barefoot perhaps. When they were kids he would always go barefoot, and Mom would yell at him, tell him that she wasn’t driving him to the ER when he stepped on glass. Perhaps he’d be wearing the amulet too, the gift that Sam had given him. Maybe he’d been sunbathing. Models had to look tan, right? And Dean really wasn’t the tanning bed type. He could be lying in the sun right now, wearing the amulet, the charm creating a small, white circle in the middle of his bare chest. 

“Of course you are,” he said. 

Dean laughed, the sound sending a whoosh of air down the phone line, making Sam’s ear tingle. 

“Anyway, so you should come. In fact, Lester was very definite about that.” 

“He was?” 

“Of course, man. You’re my brother. Besides, he thinks you’re hot.” 

“What?” Sam gasped. Dean laughed. Evilly. A dirty, throaty sort of chuckle that made Sam flush. “Dean, shut up.” 

“Aw, man, don’t be like that. He’ll be pissed if you don’t come. It’s his birthday.” 

“No it’s not. I know his birthday was in November. You had a party. Mom told me about it.” 

“Okay, so it’s not his birthday, but he still wants you there. And _I_ want you there. You will come, won’t you?”

Sam sighed. “God, yes, alright. I’ll come to your stupid party. When is it?” 

“Saturday. Be there by 2pm. Bring your swim trunks. We’re using the pool.” 

“You have a pool? I don’t remember a pool. Why didn’t I see the pool?” 

“Of course we have a pool,” Dean said matter-of-factly and hung up. 

Sam glared at the phone. He ran a hand through his hair, fingers catching on the tangles. He wanted to call Dean back, he had questions. Did he need to bring a gift? Maybe wine? No, that would be stupid. Lester had his own freaking vineyards; he’d named a wine after Dean for fuck’s sake. There was no way anything Sam could bring would meet those kinds of standards. So... some other sort of house warming present? He hadn’t brought anything last time, though he’d debated beforehand. But what the hell would they need? The glassware and tableware was probably all designer, all expensive, maybe even antique. Linens? Towels? A plant? He remembered the amazing conservatory, the freaking stained glass window. 

Fuck. He had no idea. What the hell do you buy people who can literally buy anything they want? 

He went to the gym after work, Dean’s direction about swim trunks ringing in his ears. He would be expected to change into the trunks, walk around practically naked, show himself off. _Lester thinks you’re hot_ , Dean had said. He flushed at the thought, staring at his reflection in the gym mirror as he lifted weights, and worked the rowing machine. He couldn’t imagine Lester, urbane and eccentric with his sharp face and clever, thoughtful eyes, in swimwear. Then again, Lester had that charisma, that confidence, that assuredness to pull off anything. He wouldn’t care what he looked like. His appeal was all in the personality, all in the charm and the intelligence, the aura he projected. He could probably talk for half an hour on any topic at all and make it interesting. He was one of those guys. 

He wondered how old Lester was. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy to worry too much about appearances and he had one of those faces that could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five. He’d always been gay, according to Mom, but he’d never been married before. Dean was the first man he’d ever wanted enough to propose to. Apparently he’d said that at the wedding, the one Sam had missed while he was in France. 

Sam was aching all over by the time he stepped into the locker room and under the shower. He stood there for a while, letting the hot spray ease his aching muscles. When he opened his eyes, he noticed a guy checking him out a couple of showers down. The guy raised an eyebrow, the invitation obvious in his eyes. Sam considered him; he was attractive, conventionally so, all toned perfection. 

He followed the guy into one of the private shower stalls. He watched in silence as the guy sank to his knees in front of him and took Sam’s cock into his palm, holding it in his hand like he was assessing the weight, his expression avid and greedy. Sam closed his eyes and felt his arousal build. He shuddered when he felt the guy’s mouth close around the head and he reached out a hand to steady himself against the stall wall. He carefully cleared his mind and pictured his cock, big and fat and full as the guy steadily sucked, his hands clenched around Sam’s buttocks, knees slipping on the wet floor. The guy murmured something around his stuffed full mouth, the reverberation trickling up Sam’s spine. Sam placed one hand on the guy’s prickly head and urged him on. The guy groaned and took more, the fingers of one hand dipping below Sam’s buttocks to caress at his balls. Sam pressed his lips together to stifle his moan and shot, climaxing hard. The guy drew his head back, letting Sam’s release hit him full in the face, come spurting over his cheeks and lips and chin. Sam stared down at him and thought about how stupid he looked with his face covered in spunk. 

 

** 

 

He put on his swim trunks under his navy cargo shorts, just like they used to do when they were kids, and then spent ten minutes agonizing and rummaging through his closet to find the right shirt. In the end he settled on a plain cream polo. He pulled on some leather sandals and took five minutes trying to locate his shades. 

He checked himself out in the mirror. He looked like an ad for the Gap, but it would do. He dragged his hand through his hair, trying to tousle it into some sort of style. He sighed in exasperation and went to find his car keys. 

“You look nice, honey,” his mom told him when he stopped by her place to pick her up. 

Greg wasn’t coming, he was working. Dean had called Sam that morning to ask if he could give Mom a ride and he’d agreed, wondering if it had been Dean or Lester’s idea to include their mother in the invitation. He’d probably guess at Lester, relations between Dean and Mom had always been strained. Though maybe that was different now, now that Dean was married and settled and living only an hour and a half away. 

“Thanks, you too,” he said. 

She was wearing a coral coloured sundress with a flower pattern along the hem. Her blond hair was piled into knot on top of her head and she had a fluttery, cream scarf knotted loosely around her neck. She looked right. She’d always had that enviable ability to fit in with places, that soft charm and elegance and easy American attractiveness that Dean had inherited. 

“Thank you.” She smiled at him and reached up to push his hair back from his face as she’d always done when he was small. He caught up her hand, squeezed it lightly, making a face at her. 

“Don’t. You know it’s pointless.” 

She laughed and shook her head, turning to gather up her purse and shades. 

This time the gates swung open automatically as they drew up. There were more cars out front, and Sam was relieved to see that not all of them were classics or luxury rides, but a few regular Toyotas and Fords squeezed amongst the Porsches, Mazaratis and BMWs. He watched his mother get out and smooth her hair back.

“These people,” she murmured, catching Sam’s eyes and smiling self-consciously. “Sometimes I still can’t believe that Dean, that this is his life.” 

Sam nodded. He thought about the moment Dean had first told him he was getting married – to a guy. He’d sat on his bed in his tiny apartment in Paris and stared at the phone in his hand, mouth hanging open in shock. He’d thought about calling back, trying to point out in the most tactful way possible that Dad had only been dead four months, and possibly Dean wasn’t in the right frame of mind to make such a huge decision. Getting married to some super-rich, older guy he’d only known three months, moving away from the only home he’d ever known. He hadn’t of course in the end. He hadn’t dared. Besides, Dean would never have listened; he could be as stubborn and bull-headed as Dad when he wanted to be. 

Knowing that didn’t stop the guilty feelings. He knew that he should’ve kept in touch better after Dad’s death, but he was in Paris and he had his own stuff going on. And then – well – there’d been the shame and embarrassment, remembering what had happened the last time they’d seen each other. Agonising over it, running it over and over in his mind when he wasn’t trying to actively repress it, unable to stop himself from wondering if Dean remembered and if Dean ever thought about it? If Dean secretly thought he was a pervert. Dean had always seemed normal on the phone, making stupid jokes about Sam’s love life while carefully side-stepping any questions about his own. It was Mom who’d told him about Dean’s money problems, about the mess Dad had left behind, and it was Mom who’d first told him about Lester. 

Sam had meant to go visit, but flights were so expensive and he was an intern, he had no money to spare. Anyway, it wasn’t just about money. Dean was grieving, he was hurting, and that wasn’t something Sam could share or help him with. His father had always been such a distant figure to him, while Dean had loved Dad so much. Through Dad’s long, drawn-out sickness, he’d been there for every step, caring for him, doing everything for him. Sam had never thought about what Dean would do with his life after Dad died. 

He should have known that Dean would land on his feet. Not just Lester, the billionaire who worshipped the ground he walked on, but the new career too. The modelling thing had come about almost by accident. An ad exec friend of Lester’s had been looking for someone just like Dean to advertise some fancy brand of golf clubs and he’d talked Dean into trying out – as a joke really, or so Dean had said. Apparently the results had blown everyone away and Dean was persuaded to get himself an agent and go after other jobs. By the time Sam finished his internship and returned to LA, Dean was living in the same state as him for the first time in years and he had a fabulous, new career and a filthy rich husband. 

“At last, it’s my gorgeous in-laws!” 

Sam turned around to see Lester approaching from one side of the house, his arms outstretched in greeting. 

“Mary, you look beautiful, as always,” he said, bounding up to them and drawing Mary in to plant kisses on both cheeks. “What a gorgeous dress.” His eyes ran up and down her and he nodded. “I approve.” 

“And Sam, of course. So handsome.” He took Sam’s hand, giving it a tight squeeze. “Such a beautiful family, you make me want to learn to paint. Actually! That makes me think, we should have a portrait done. You two and Dean. What do you think: a family portrait? I know just the place to put it. The library. I hate the art in there. Still lifes – so lifeless. Don’t you think?” 

“I guess it depends on the artist,” Sam said. 

Immediately, Lester’s attention was on him, swinging his way and pinpointing him to the spot. “Yes. Yes, I suppose it does. Still, that one – whatever it is in the library, a bowl of fruit – so prosaic, though the light is exceptionally good, but that’s not enough. I don’t like it anymore. It’s just part of the furniture now to me and art should never be that. A family portrait, though. The Winchesters grouped together – that would never get old. I keep telling Dean I want a portrait of him, but he doesn’t listen. He says it’s too much like work for him. But it isn’t the same. I want my own portrait of him. Something for me. I feel very strongly about it.” 

“Maybe he’s afraid you’ll put a copy up in the attic to stop him from aging,” Sam said. 

Lester gave him a frank look and cocked his head. “You’re witty and clever. I always imagined you would be. Stanford graduate – the clever part is obvious. But so often the witty part doesn’t go with it. I’m so pleased to have that confirmed.” 

Sam blinked at him. “Uh, okay. Thanks, I guess.” 

“We should go. It’s this way.” Lester spun around and set off back where he came. He waved a hand in the air to beckon them on. “C’mon. Dean will be very pleased you’re here!” 

“Do you think he was serious about the family portrait thing?” Sam asked as they followed Lester. 

“Knowing Lester. Yes, I do.” 

“Oh God,” Sam groaned. 

She laughed and patted his arm. “Sweetheart, c’mon. I’d love a picture of you two boys together. And I think I have the perfect spot for it. Above the hearth in the living room.” 

“As long as it doesn’t become part of the furniture, Mom, art should never be that,” he said with a smirk. 

She gave him a look. “Honey, don’t be cruel.” 

“Hey, I’m not cruel, I’m witty and clever. It’s been confirmed.” 

“Sam.” 

“Yeah, okay. I’ll be good. Best behaviour, I promise.” 

Lester was waiting for them at the corner of the house. They could hear splashing sounds, calls and shouts, some music. Sam felt a buzz of excitement, that vacation sensation of dashing out into a swimming pool and dive-bombing into the water after a long day cooped up in the car. “C’mon. This way,” Lester called out, beckoning them to follow him around the side of the house. 

The pool was large, a big, no-nonsense rectangle of Spanish tiles in blue and white. There were sun loungers framing two sides, most of them occupied by guests in various states of dress, some in swimwear, some in shorts and tees, even a couple of uncomfortable looking men in suits. There was a covered patio area in the same blue and white tile linking the house to the pool area. Big potted palms stood in ceramic pots, along with a few tables and chairs, all under a white canopy, the entire set-up reminding Sam of a European style cafe-bar. There was even an actual bar, set up on one side of the pool with a bartender on duty serving drinks. The French windows were open, leading inside to a part of the house Sam hadn’t seen on his previous visit. The soft sound of music was drifting through from the house, _When I Saw You_ , by The Ronettes. Not the kind of music he associated with Dean, but the kind that definitely fit in with the lush, elegant surroundings. 

“Everybody!” called out Lester in his clear, ringing voice. “The Winchesters have arrived!” 

Sam felt several interested pairs of eyes swing their way, giving them an assessing once-over. 

“And where’s Dean?” cried Lester. “Where’s my other half?”

“Right here.” Dean stepped out the French windows as if awaiting his cue. Lester held out his arm and Dean drew closer, walking into the embrace. He slung his arm around Lester and leaned in to whisper something into Lester’s ear. Lester threw his head back and laughed, giving Dean a fond, doting look. Dean smiled, lifted his gaze from his husband to look towards Sam. Their eyes met and Sam felt himself swallow, his breathing hitch for a fraction of a second. Dean was wearing swim shorts and flip-flops and nothing else. His body was sleek and slim and toned, every muscle perfectly cut, his skin lightly tanned, a small trail of golden hair running from his navel to dip below the waistband of his shorts. He pulled his arm away from Lester whose attention immediately switched somewhere else, and walked towards Mary and Sam. 

“Has he offered you a drink?” he asked. 

“We just got here,” Mary said, leaning in to kiss him. “How are you, honey? You look good.” 

Dean nodded. He raised his free hand to scrape across his jaw, looking a little uncomfortable. “I’m fine. Just – parties. You know how it is. You want beer, Sam? Wine for you, Mom?” 

“Yeah, dude, that would be fine,” Sam said. “You need a hand with that?” 

Dean slanted him a look. “I think I got it.” He turned to head back inside the house, flip-flops slapping against his soles as he walked. 

“It’s Mary, isn’t it?” Sam turned his attention to a newcomer as a suave looking man in a linen shirt and black swim trunks approached them, holding a glass of wine in one hand and holding out the other to Mom. “I don’t know if you’ll remember me from the wedding, but I remember you. I’m Philip; I’ve worked with Lester on some of his various projects.” He waved an airy hand as if to demonstrate some of these projects. “You work at the Westerbury Museum don’t you?” 

“Yes, yes, I do,” said Mom. “Do you know it?” 

“Very well.” 

Her face immediately lit up and Sam stood for a couple of moments listening to them talk, pretending to be interested in the conversation. He glanced back towards the house, towards the French windows where Dean had disappeared. He gave Mom’s arm a squeeze and turned to head into the house after Dean. 

It seemed dark inside after the blinding white sunshine and Sam blinked a couple of times, letting his eyes get used to the light. He was in a kitchen, a really big kitchen with an island in the middle of it, a clean and shiny stovetop and blue and terracotta tiling built into the island. There were a couple of high barstools, gleaming pots and pans hanging from the ceiling above the island and a row of cookery books neatly stacked between two heavy, glass bookends. There was a black Aga range in one corner of the room and a deep, copper butler’s sink with a huge draining board. There were numerous cupboards with Spanish-style wood doors and a row of worktops built from the same terracotta tile as the enormous island. It was the kind of kitchen Sam had only ever seen on aspirational home-makeover shows. 

“Sam.” 

He spun around. Dean was standing in the doorway that led out into the passage, watching Sam with an unreadable expression on his face. He stepped into the room, carrying a couple of dusty bottles of wine in his hands. 

“I had to go down to the cellar,” he said, holding up the bottles. “In case you were wondering where I’d gotten to.” He moved to one of the worktops, pulled open a drawer to take out a corkscrew. 

“You have a wine cellar,” Sam murmured. “Of course you have a wine cellar.” 

Dean gave him a look over one shoulder, hands deftly working the corkscrew into the bottle. “Of course we do. We have our own vineyards too. I’ve seen them, they’re very impressive.” 

“Where are they?” 

“Oh, up north somewhere. Don’t ask me. I just like drinking the stuff. All that crap about vintages and terroirs and grape varieties bores the shit out of me.” He pulled out the cork with a satisfying pop. “There,” he said. He opened a cupboard, took out an enormous wine goblet and filled it with a generous measure, the wine glug-glugging as he poured. “I’m gonna take this out to Mom. Beers are in the sink,” he jerked his head towards the enormous copper sink, “get me one.” 

“Okay,” Sam said and watched him flip-flop out the room into the dazzling sunlight. He crossed to the massive, deep-set sink. It was full of ice, bottles of beer placed into it at strategic intervals. He pulled two out. The glass was freezing and wet. His fingers sank into the moisture, cold droplets soaking his skin. There was a bottle opener sitting on the draining board next to a wooden chopping board covered in segments of lime. He uncapped the bottles and jammed wedges of lime into the necks. He leaned his ass back against the side and took a long, satisfying pull on his beer. He’d almost drunk half of it by the time Dean reappeared, holding a couple of empty glasses in his hands. 

“I thought you had a bartender out there,” Sam commented as Dean placed the glasses on one side. “Isn’t he supposed to collect glasses?” 

Dean shrugged. “Old habits, I guess.” 

“Here.” Sam held out the other beer to his brother. 

“Thanks, man.” Dean leaned in to clink the necks together. He took a long pull, lips wrapping around the rim, eyes on Sam. He lowered the beer, gave him a long look. “You look good, Sammy. I’m not sure if I said that last time. But I meant to tell you. I mean, you grew up good. Tall.” 

Sam felt his face heat up. He bowed his head, raised his hand to scratch the back of his neck. “Uh, thanks. You, um, you too. You grew up good too. You look good.” 

“Oh. Well, that’s my job.” He gave a wide, fake smile. 

“I guess it is,” Sam said. 

“So, I’ve been thinking,” Dean said, “about your tragic transport situation.” 

“Dean.” 

Dean ignored him, carried on like he hadn’t spoken. “And I reckon, I can help you out. I’ve been working on this project. It’s this fucking gorgeous Cadillac Coupe de Ville, 64 model. Just beautiful. It needs a lot of work though, and I’ve been having some trouble tracking down the parts, so I’ve kinda hit a wall with it right now. So, yeah, anyway, the guy who hooked me up with her in the first place, he gets other classics in from time to time. I’m gonna ask him to keep his eye out for you.” 

“You really don’t have to,” Sam said. 

“Dude, no. I want to, and,” he broke off for a second, gave a sheepish sort of a shrug, “I like it. It’s a way to pass the time. We all have our hobbies, right?” 

Sam eyed him. Dean was picking at the label on his beer bottle, his expression a little guarded. “Okay,” he said. 

Dean glanced up through his eyelashes, his mouth stretching outwards, lines crinkling around his eyes, one of those full-wattage grins that took years off him. “Yeah? You’re gonna let me hook you up with a sweet ride?” 

“Oh God, please don’t put it like that,” Sam groaned, but he was grinning back, unable to resist when Dean smiled like that. 

Dean laughed and stepped up beside him at the sink to elbow him playfully. This close, Sam was suddenly aware of how much taller he was than Dean. Dean was obviously aware of it too as he tilted his head to one side and made a face at Sam. “Fucking Sasquatch.” 

“Jealous, much?” Sam said and shoulder-checked him. 

Dean made an annoyed sound and jostled him back. He reached into the sink of ice, snatched up a couple of cubes and tipped them down the front of Sam’s shirt. 

“Aw, fuck! You asshole!” Sam cried out, stepping away from his brother and shaking his shirt. The ice cubes slid down his body and slopped onto the floor, most of their icy consistency already melted into water. “Jesus, Dean!” 

Dean was grinning delightedly at him, his eyes lit up. “You gotta take it off now, man.” He grabbed for the hem of Sam’s shirt and gave it a tug. 

“Get off!” Sam snapped, trying to peel his brother’s hands away, one hand curling around Dean’s wrist. 

“Make me,” Dean said, arching up an eyebrow and looking unbearably smug as he fisted his fingers in Sam’s shirt. 

“Okay then,” Sam retorted and shoved his brother with one shoulder. Dean immediately shoved back, and sprang to get one arm around Sam’s neck, yanking him down into a headlock, the move taking Sam back fifteen years: his eight year old self tussling with his big brother after Dean had stolen his transformer or favourite legoman. “Geroff! Get off me!” he protested. 

“Aw, Sammy, still ain’t gonna win!” Dean panted, laughing hysterically as he peeled Sam’s shirt up his back, rucking it up so it caught under his armpits. 

“Asshole!” Sam protested, but he was laughing, enjoying the feel of his brother so close. He made a grab for Dean, got one arm around his naked back, yanked hard so Dean lost his balance, falling into his body. Dean went still and Sam looked down. His brother’s face was really close, cheeks red with exertion, artfully tousled hair messed up at one side, a shimmer of sweat pooled in his throat, just above his collarbone. He was grinning, his eyes a little wild as he stared up at Sam. 

“Little bitch,” he murmured, his breath puffing against Sam’s throat. 

“Midget,” Sam said, his mouth curling up into a grin. 

“Oh, so that’s where you are!” 

Dean froze then pulled away from Sam. He whirled around, raised one hand to smooth down his hair. Lester was standing in the French windows, eying them with a distracted look. 

“We were just—“ Dean started to say. 

“Come out! Both of you! You should come take a dip. I’m even thinking of chancing it! It’s such a gorgeous day. Of course the weather is always gorgeous here,” Lester said, speaking over Dean. He held out his hand, wiggled his fingers. Sam watched his brother cross the kitchen, take hold of Lester’s hand. Lester raised it to his lips, kissed Dean’s knuckles and Sam saw his brother’s shoulders relax, saw him smile up at his husband. Lester tossed an arm around Dean and led him out into the sunshine. 

Sam let out a long, hot breath. He peered down at his shirt and the wet stains where the ice had soaked him. It was rumpled, pushed up above his belly button. He caught hold of the hem, intending to smooth it down again. But then he hesitated, gave a shrug, and in one quick motion, yanked it up and over his head. He ruffled his hair back in place, drew the back of his hand over his mouth. He folded up the shirt, stuffed as much as he could get into the back pocket of his shorts. He picked up what was left of his own beer and followed Dean outside. 

He watched Dean, watched him stand beside Lester like a good husband, watched him get drinks and make conversation, moving amongst their guests like a good host. He found this version of his brother endlessly fascinating, trying to reconcile him with the Dean that had worked at the garage with Dad; the Dean whose weekly highlight had been dollar shots at Tony’s Bar; the Dean who’d dated Annette Copley, prom queen, for two years straight out of high school; the Dean who’d tried to teach him poker the one summer he’d spent in California; the Dean who’d mopped up Dad’s vomit and wiped his ass and refused to cry when they lowered his coffin into the grave. Sometimes he felt there was more he didn’t know about Dean than he actually did know. They were brothers and shared the same parents and the same last name, but they had nothing else in common. Dean was a mystery to him and he wanted more than anything to get to know him, to _really_ know him, to understand who the real Dean Winchester was. 

“Sam Winchester, I’m Doug Freeman.” Sam switched his attention reluctantly away from his brother to the handsome, blond-haired man standing in front of him, holding out his hand. 

“Hi, nice to meet you,” he said, taking the hand. 

“Likewise,” said Freeman, giving him a long, very obvious once-over. His gaze lingered around Sam’s bare chest then slowly tracked back up to his face. “Lester tells me that you work for Tandy & Grey.” 

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I do.” 

“So, do you have any tips for a guy thinking about switching funds? What looks good at the moment?” The last said with a salacious curl of his lip that was obviously not just talking about credit ratings. 

Sam smiled uncomfortably and brought his hand up to scratch the back of his neck. “Uh, yeah, I’m sorry but I work in the insurance division, retail insurance, mainly. I don’t really know much about the funds side of things.” 

“Insurance, huh? Well, insurance is important. To tell the truth, I haven’t considered insurance much. But it’s a steady market. Maybe you could make a good case for it?” He tilted his head, his eyes going heavy-lidded. “Here, have my card.” He produced a business card from the pocket of his fancy linen pants. He slid it down into the front pocket of Sam’s shorts, gave the pocket a couple of taps with his finger, his hand lingering over the bare skin just above Sam’s waistband. Sam stared down at the guy’s hand, at the chunky Rolex on his wrist, the gold signet ring on his little finger. “Give me a call sometime. I’m not in the city very often, but I’m sure we could have a good time together.” 

“Thanks,” Sam said, keeping his voice steady. 

The guy gave him one last, long look before he turned away. 

Doug Freeman’s wasn’t the only card Sam got that afternoon. In fact he was surprised by just how many people seemed to know what he did and who he worked for. A few of them had real questions and got into real conversations about work, and Sam found himself relaxing and talking back, happy to talk about something he knew. Of course, there were a couple more guys like Doug Freeman, guys who slipped him their cards and asked him to give them a call. One of them even mentioned a notorious bathhouse in Beverley Hills, boasting that he had the platinum membership and he’d be delighted to give Sam a private tour whenever he wanted. 

Then there were the people who wanted to know about Dean. _“He’s such a mystery, your brother...”_ and _“we were all so shocked when Lester told us the news,”_ and _“of course when we met him, we could see precisely what Lester saw in him.”_ That last one said by a catty-voiced woman who hadn’t realised who Sam was. Sam bit his lip, swallowed down what he really wanted to say and gave a perfunctory response, a fake smile stretching his face rigid, his hand permanently shaped around a glass, because you had to drink at these sorts of shindigs, it was the only way to get through them. And so now, hours later, after beer and wine, and at some point, mojitos and pisco sours, he was drunk, had no clue where Mom was, or Dean, or even Lester. And he’d somehow managed to lose his shirt. 

Most of the guests seemed to have left; the few remaining had retreated indoors. Outside, the lights around the canopy that bordered the pool were lit up, twinkling off the still water and making the place look like an advertisement for a luxury Palm Springs vacation resort. The bartender had done his job and cleared up outside, and there were only three people left in the pool, lounging around in the shallow end, their voices low and playful, the faint ripple of the water as someone moved. Sam listened in, recognizing Dean’s voice from among the rest. He stepped through the French windows and padded towards the edge of the water, until he was standing over his brother. 

“There you are. I’ve been looking for you,” he said. 

Dean tipped his head back. His face was in shadow, ethereal and pale in the light, the whites of his eyes gleaming. “Sammy,” he said. His voice was deep, a little slurred with drink. He pushed his hand out the water with a soft flurry, grabbed hold of Sam’s ankle with wet, slippery fingers. “C’mon in. Join us.” 

The other two people (a woman and a guy) turned their heads to peer up at Sam, staring at him with the same frank, open contemplation all these people seemed to share. He ignored them and squatted down, elbows on his knees, his eyes on Dean and only Dean. 

“Is it warm in there?” 

Dean grinned at him, ran his forefinger over Sam’s ankle bone in a way that made Sam shiver. “It’s perfect.” 

He grinned back and placed his half-drunk glass beside the others. “Okay.” He kicked off his sandals, unfastened his watch and fumbled with the drawstring to his cargo shorts. He let them slide down his legs and pool around his ankles until he was just wearing his swim trunks. Dean made a pleased, approving sound and pulled his hand back under the water as Sam kicked his shorts away. He took a couple of steps towards the deep end and executed a perfect dive into the pool. 

The water felt glorious around him, and he pushed himself into it, ducking his head again and savouring the sensation of weightlessness. He drifted for a few seconds then yelped when he felt someone’s hand close around his arm and yank hard. He floundered, pushed his head out the water to see Dean grinning at him, his hair plastered to his skull, drops of water rolling down his face. 

“Do you remember that year we went on vacation in Nevada? Dad taught you to swim in the motel pool?” Dean said. 

Sam blinked. “I don’t know. Was that when you got those red armbands?” 

“No, dumbass, those armbands were yours! I could already swim perfectly.” 

“Whatever.” 

Dean laughed and dunked him. Sam floundered under water, seeing a flash of white limbs. He made a grab – a leg – _Dean’s_ leg. He tugged hard, felt Dean’s balance give way, forcing him to let go of Sam. Sam surfaced, spluttering for air, blinking the water out of his eyes. Dean was standing a few paces away, laughing and coughing and watching him. He flipped the bird at Sam then spun and swam back towards the shallow end. He reached for his drink and turned around to sip it, leaning back against the side the pool. The water was lapping at his chest, just below his nipples, and he was watching Sam with studied intensity, a challenging quirk to his eyebrow. The two other people had gone. It was only the two of them in the pool, only the two of them out here. Sam swam slowly towards his brother. 

Dean held his drink out to him. Sam took it, said, “I think I’m drunk.” 

“I think you are too.” 

“Where’s Mom?” 

Dean snorted a laugh. “Dude, she left ages ago.” 

“Really? Fuck.” 

Dean flicked some water at him, laughed again. “You _are_ wasted. Maybe you shouldn’t be in here.” 

“You’d save me, wouldn’t you? If I drowned?” He tilted his head, widened his eyes into his most pathetic, pleading look. 

“I’d consider it,” Dean said generously. 

Sam sighed and leaned back against the side of the pool, tilting his head back over the edge. “Today was intense,” he said. 

“You should be in my shoes.” 

Sam rolled his head his brother’s way, regarded him lazily. “I guess. Everybody was asking me about you. They all want to know about you.” 

Dean’s mouth thinned, he placed his glass back on the side. “I bet they do.” 

“Why’d you marry him?” Sam asked. The question was out before he could stop it, and he pushed his mouth closed afterwards, silently berating his stupid, tired, drunken mind. Dean was looking at him, a wry twist to his mouth. 

“Surely everybody knows why a guy like me marries a billionaire.” 

Sam rolled his eyes, made a scoffing sound. “Yeah, people who don’t know you. You’re my brother, I know you better and I don’t believe you’d marry someone for money.” 

Dean bowed his head, said quietly, “Good to know.” 

They went quiet. The world was spinning gently. The stars way up high were blinking and he couldn’t see the moon, maybe there wasn’t a moon tonight. He lowered his gaze slowly, over the dark grey sky, to the canopy flapping gently in the soft breeze, to the water lapping against the other side of the pool, the reflected white string of lights rippling across the surface. 

“So, you have a good time today, man? I saw Doug Freeman give you his card,” Dean said, breaking the silence. 

“A lot of people gave me their cards. I think most of them wanted to get in my pants.” 

“I think you’re right.” 

Sam lifted his head, looked at his brother. Dean’s expression was soft and thoughtful, his eyes locked on some point at the other end of the pool, a small muscle twitching at the edge of his jaw. 

“How am I gonna get home, Dean? I don’t think I can drive. I thought Mom was gonna drive me, but you say she’s left.” 

“You can stay,” Dean said, abruptly turning his attention back to his brother. “C’mon. I’ll show you to a room. We got plenty of them.” 

They sneaked up the back stairs, hearing the low murmur of voices coming from the living room. “You gonna go join them after?” Sam stage-whispered. Dean had his arm around him, holding him up as they navigated the stairs. 

“God, no. I’m fuckin’ beat,” Dean said as they rounded a twist in the staircase. “Jesus, Sam, how much do you weigh?” 

“I dunno, like 210. I can bench 300 pounds,” he said proudly, stopping to look his brother in the face. 

“Am I supposed to be impressed?” 

“Yeah, course,” he said, pouting. “Aren’t you?” 

Dean chuckled and squeezed Sam’s arm where he was holding onto him. “Yeah, yeah, Sammy, I’m really impressed with how big and strong you are.” 

They made it to the guest room (one of the guest rooms, there seemed to be several mysterious closed doors along the long corridor), only colliding with the wall twice. Sam slumped against his brother, letting him take his weight, laying his head gratefully on Dean’s shoulder as Dean got the door open and guided them inside. He nuzzled his face into the nice soft place between Dean’s shoulder and neck and breathed in the scent of his skin. Dean felt so nice, and he smelled good – of chlorine and sun block – clean, fresh smells that reminded him of vacations and motel swimming pools and helping his brother cut the grass and wash the car on the weekends. Dad used to give them five dollars afterwards to spend on candy and comic books, he’d forgotten about that. 

“C’mon, Sammy,” Dean said, manoeuvring him towards the bed. 

“You – you’re the only who calls me that,” Sam slurred. He raised his head from Dean’s shoulder, tried to look him in the eyes. “No one else calls me that. Mom calls me Sam, and Greg calls me Sam. Everyone calls me Sam, not Sammy. Only you. I like it.” 

“Man, you’re gonna be so freakin’ embarrassed in the morning,” Dean muttered. He guided Sam down onto the bed. He straightened up, about to leave. 

“No, no, Dean, wait.” Sam lunged for his brother’s arm, pulled him back. He grabbed for Dean’s face, cupped his cheeks, feeling the scrape of his brother’s five o’clock shadow under his fingers. “Dean,” he said, his voice imploring. 

Dean’s eyes were wide, startled. He placed one hand over Sam’s where it covered his face, attempting to pry his fingers away. “Sam, what—“ 

“You gotta tell me,” Sam insisted, “you gotta. The truth, Dean. Are you happy? With him – with Lester? Is that what you really want? Are you happy?” 

He saw Dean hesitate, his eyes flutter half-closed. A fleeting look swept across his face before he took a breath and curled his hands around Sam’s wrists, tugging his hands away from his face. “You’re wasted,” he said quietly. 

“That’s not an answer! Please, you gotta tell me. Are you – you’re happy, right? All this,” he made a sweeping motion with his hand, clunking his wrist against the headboard, “does it make you happy?” 

Dean blew out a breath, opened his eyes to meet Sam’s intense gaze. “Yes. Yes, I’m happy. Yes, I’m happy with Lester. He loves me, I love him. We’re both happy. Now, will you go to sleep? I’ll see you in the morning, okay?”

Sam slumped down into the mattress. The world was still spinning and he could feel Dean’s eyes on him, feel him watching him, a prickle against the side of his face. He groaned and wriggled onto his front, burying his face into the pillow. It felt soft and cool against his cheek and he squeezed his eyes shut, one hand going to twist in the comforter. 

He heard Dean let out a breath. Then quietly, after a few more beats, he heard Dean’s footsteps retreat and the door close gently behind him. 

 

**

 

He was happy (and relieved) to find the next morning that Dean had given him a room with an en suite bathroom. He was less happy to find that he’d slept in an enormous wet spot all night after falling asleep in his wet trunks. He left them in a heap on the bathroom floor and slumped against the sink to peer into the mirror at his reflection. His eyes were red and sore from the chlorine and alcohol, his hair looked like some creatures had nested in it overnight and his skin had that sickly grey tinge of the very hung-over. At least a shower would fix one of those things. Maybe some coffee and dark glasses could handle the rest. 

Someone had brought his clothes up from the pool overnight, even his shirt, which he’d pretty much given up for lost. There was a toothbrush and toothpaste in the cabinet above the sink and he gratefully helped himself, feeling about ten times better once he’d cleaned the fur off his teeth and refreshed his breath. 

He showered and dressed and stripped the bed. Then he sat on the edge of the mattress for a few moments wondering what the time was. He wasn’t sure what had happened to his watch and he’d never been able to tell the time from the position of the sun in the sky. Eventually, with a weary sigh, he pushed himself up off the bed and left the room, hoping valiantly that he hadn’t made too much of an ass of himself the previous night. 

Lester was in the kitchen, sitting on a stool at the enormous island, a cup of coffee, plate of toast, and about twenty different newspapers spread out in front of him. There was no sign of Dean. 

“Well, hello there,” Lester greeted him, raising his head from the paper and smiling cheerfully. “I expect you’ll be wanting a cup of coffee?” 

“Um, yes, yes. That would be great. Thanks,” Sam mumbled. 

Lester smiled and slid off his stool. “Take a seat, take a seat. Can I fix you anything else? Toast? Eggs? Cereal? I think we have several boxes in one of the cupboards somewhere,” he waved an arm around, “not sure where, I never eat the stuff myself. Strictly a toast and marmalade man. We have the best marmalade. I have it imported from Scotland. I’m very particular about breakfast food.” He strode towards the coffee machine in the corner of the room and lifted the pot. “How’d you like it? Black? Sugar? Milk?” 

“Uh, milk, with two sugars,” Sam answered, leaning against the island and peering at the stack of newspapers. “Thank you.” 

“Milk with two sugars,” Lester repeated, fixing the coffee. He noticed where Sam was looking and waved another hand. “Help yourself! I never get around to reading all of them anyway, but I do love the news.”

Sam noticed _Le Monde_ and pulled it out, flicking it open. “You speak French?” he asked. 

_“Naturellement,”_ Lester replied with a strong English inflection. “Not as well as you of course.” 

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Sam said with a polite smile. 

Lester shrugged. “Oh, I know enough to get by.” He came forward with the coffee and placed it onto the side beside Sam’s elbow. He reached over and pulled _La Tribune_ out from the pile. “Here’s another. Take them, read them, enjoy.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Are you sure I can’t get you something to eat? We have a waffle iron. It’s an ingenious contraption but unfortunately, I’m completely hopeless with it. Dean is the master. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind rustling you up some waffles. I promise you that they do taste delicious. A little whipped cream, some strawberries, raspberries – you’ll be set for the day.” 

“No, no, that’s fine. Coffee is fine,” Sam assured him. “Um, where is Dean? Is he awake?” 

“Taking his morning constitutional.” 

Sam blinked at him. “Uh, his what?” 

“His morning swim. One hundred lengths of the pool. Every morning, no matter the weather. Of course, the weather is generally cooperative here, not like back at home. Though, I have to say in his defence I have seen him go out there in the rain. He’s very dedicated.” 

“Dean does 100 laps every morning?” 

“He does indeed. Like I said, he’s very dedicated, and very fit. I’ve always appreciated a swimmer’s body. In fact, the very first boy I had sexual relations with, he was a swimmer. There’s a certain fluidity to the way they move. The muscles, very tight, very compact. And the smell, I do think there’s something arousing about the smell of chlorine on skin...” 

Sam suddenly remembered pressing his face into his brother’s neck, sniffing at his skin, at that smell of chlorine. He picked up his coffee, trying to hide the blush flooding into his cheeks. He slid off his stool and crossed the kitchen to the French windows, hearing Lester talking in the background, still extolling the virtues of a swimmer’s body. He could see the pool clearly through the window and Dean was indeed taking his morning constitutional, ploughing through the water in rhythmical, even strokes, executing a perfect tumble turn at each end as he glided onwards. 

“He’s remarkable, isn’t he?” said Lester. 

Sam flinched, darted a sideways glance at Lester who was standing beside him, his gaze open and admiring as he watched Dean. 

“I never thought he’d say yes to me. Not in a million years. It’s funny. Everybody thinks he was the lucky one, that I was doing him a favour.” He flicked his eyes to Sam, smiled softly, conspiratorially. “They have no idea. I’m the lucky one. Sometimes I think of all the things that had to happen for him to say yes to me. So many coincidences, so many little things that could’ve gone the other way. I was going to go to another garage on that day – a bigger one. I wasn’t sure, some little place like that, I was sure they’d rip me off. See me coming so to speak. Then my broker called and I got distracted. I pulled up on the forecourt to take the call, and then he came out of the shop. I remember this so vividly, what he was wearing, how he looked. He couldn’t take his eyes off the Porsche, and I couldn’t take my eyes off him. Love at first sight, I suppose you’d call it. He took pity on me I think, my clumsy attempts at flirting. He flirted back, I remember that. But it was half-hearted, like he was going through the motions, and I could see so clearly: there was a part of him that was broken. I wanted more than anything to fix that.” He splayed one hand over his chest then said thoughtfully, “I would’ve liked to have known your father.” 

Sam swallowed, the corner of his mouth twisted as he met Lester’s gaze. “I’m not sure he would’ve approved of you. No offence.” 

“Oh, none taken. And yes, I’m sure you’re right. But – still. He was very important to Dean.” 

“He was.” 

“Like you are.” 

“Me?” Sam blinked at him. He frowned. “Really? You think that—“ 

“Oh, it was one of the first things we talked about,” Lester cut in. “When I told him about what I did, about how much I travelled, how I’d just come back from Paris where I’d been overseeing a new acquisition. I was bragging shamelessly of course. But he stopped me at that point, all smiling and proud, and said his little brother worked in Paris, for Tandy & Grey, the big credit ratings agency, and had I heard of them?” He chuckled affectionately. 

“I never realised he knew who I worked for back then,” Sam said, surprised. 

Lester raised his eyebrows. “Of course he knew. Like I said, you’re very important to him.” 

Sam swallowed. He could feel the smile threatening to break out across his face, the warm aching sensation in his chest. “He’s important to me too.” 

“I know,” said Lester serenely. 

Dean came to a halt at one end of the pool. He braced his hands on the edge and pushed himself out with one easy, graceful movement. He knelt on the side, pushed the goggles off his eyes and up into his hair, making his hair stand up everywhere. He strolled towards one of the sun loungers and gathered up a towel, wiping it across his face then drawing it down across his chest and belly, down his thighs and calves and then back again along each arm. He sank down onto the edge of the lounger to pull on his flip-flops, then snapped off the goggles and tossed them onto the lounger, running the towel through his dripping hair. 

“It’s a shame that relations between Dean and your mother are so strained,” Lester said. 

Sam blinked, forced his attention away from Dean and back to Lester. He tried to recall what the other guy had said. “Uh, what?” 

“Forgive me if I’m stepping over a line here, Dean can be a bit prickly on the subject, but his relationship with Mary does seem strained to me. Has it always been like that?” 

“Dean and Mom? Yeah. I guess so. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven her for cheating on Dad.” 

“These situations are tricky,” said Lester with a sigh. He turned around, padded back towards the island counter. “Of course, my own parents – I think my father’s on his fourth or maybe fifth wife? And my mother’s on her third, though apparently their marriage is on the rocks according to my darling sister. Families, hey?” 

“Right,” Sam said, nodding. “Families.” He forced himself to look away from Dean and turned back to Lester. “Actually, um, if it isn’t too much trouble, I would like to try some of that toast and marmalade?”


	4. Chapter 4

“Promise you won’t laugh.” 

“That depends,” Sam said, leaning back in his desk chair and twirling the phone cord around one finger. 

“I need a new outfit,” said Dean. “And I need.” He paused, blew out a breath. “It’s the shopping thing. I fucking hate it. It’s painful, man. And you’re gay, right? So. I figure. You gotta give me some of the queer eye treatment. Like, help me choose something. Lester’s getting this award, it’s a huge honour and I have to go. He’s not letting me get out of this one.” He trailed off and groaned dramatically. 

“Okay, so first, congratulations on being equally parts offensive and equally parts pathetic,” Sam said, the corners of his mouth tugging upwards. 

“Oh fuck you, I’m desperate here.” 

“Yeah, I’m beginning to get that. But why the hell do you think _I_ can help with your shopping dilemma? Apart from the offensive you’re-gay-therefore-you-automatically-know-about-fashion stereotype? Which by the way – in my case – totally isn’t true.”

“But you are gay, aren’t you?” Dean insisted. 

“Well, yeah. But so are you, Dean. At least in part. You’re the one married to a guy.” 

“Yeah, but I’m not that kinda gay. I’m just the kinda gay that likes dick.” 

Sam sighed manfully and dropped his head back over the top of his desk chair. “Okay, don’t speak anymore. Just – please don’t. Okay?” 

There was a pause and then Dean said hopefully, “Does this mean you’ll come with me? It’s so fucking boring on my own.” 

Sam sighed and ran his hand through his hair, tugging at the ends. “Yes, God, okay. I’ll come with you. But only because you’re so pathetic.” 

“Awesome. So, tomorrow then? Is that okay? I’ll swing round your place. We’ll go to Rodeo Drive or wherever.” 

“Rodeo Drive? I was just thinking of the outlet mall.” 

“Sam, did you not hear the part about how this is a big fucking deal and a huge fucking honour and I have to look the part. Like, I’m talking designer, at least. Outlet mall ain’t gonna cut it.” 

“Oh God, Dean,” Sam groaned. “You are seriously talking to the wrong person here. Don’t you know this shit? You’re a model for fuck’s sake!”

“Well, yeah, but I don’t actually take any notice of it,” Dean said, a shade defensively. “I just wear whatever crazy shit they throw at me and pout when they tell me to pout.” 

Sam shook his head, but he was smiling, despite himself. “Okay, whatever, blue steel. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

“Mañana, hermano,” Dean said and hung up. 

 

** 

 

The kid Sam had picked up in Dreamz had only been gone twenty minutes when Dean arrived, leaning on the buzzer for an obnoxiously long time before Sam let him in. He looked cool and refreshed when he stepped inside Sam’s apartment, wearing what Sam had started to think of his professional A&F look: purposely distressed jeans and navy tee, leather shoes and aviator shades pushed into his artfully tousled hair. 

He walked around the small, cramped space, peering at the pictures Sam had fixed to the walls, pulling open drawers and poking his head into Sam’s closet while Sam showered and dressed. 

“Uh-ho-ho, Sammy! You naughty boy!” he called out, sounding worryingly pleased with himself. Sam came hurrying through from the bathroom, towel around his waist and toothbrush dangling out his mouth. Dean was kneeling on the floor, Sam’s (extremely fucking private) box of sex toys open in front of him. Dean turned his head and grinned up at him, looking like he’d won the fucking lottery. “Wow, you’re fucking filthy, dude. That’s a compliment by the way.” 

“Jesus Christ, Dean!” Sam hissed, blushing crazy red and sinking to the floor, toothpaste running down his chin and splashing onto the carpet. He shouldered his brother away and pushed the box back under the bed. “That’s fucking private!” 

“Oh c’mon. You’re my brother,” Dean appealed. 

“And?” 

“I never got to do this with you when you were a teenager. Embarrass you and lend you skin mags and give you lessons on where to find the clitoris.” 

“I’m gay!” 

“Okay, then give you lessons on how to massage the prostate,” Dean said with a shrug, waggling his first two fingers in Sam’s face. 

“God, I’m so fucking glad we didn’t grow up together. And seriously – this – this is private!” He gave the box one last shove and heaved to his feet, toothbrush now gripped in his hand. Dean was still looking up at him, his face a picture of innocence. 

“Sam, c’mon,” he said. He tugged at the bottom of Sam’s towel and Sam flailed and grabbed onto it to hold it in place. “I’m sorry, okay. If I embarrassed you.” His expression got wicked, eyebrows screwed up, mouth twisted into an evil grin. “I’m impressed, though. You got some shit there that even I haven’t seen before.” 

“Shut up,” Sam hissed. He clamped the toothbrush back into his mouth, grabbed onto the towel and stomped back into the bathroom. 

When he emerged a couple of minutes later, dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, Dean was demurely sitting on Sam’s bed, looking the picture of innocence. He didn’t say anything but Sam could feel his eyes on him as he rummaged around in his sock drawer. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean said. 

Sam looked up from fastening his watch and regarded his brother for a couple of seconds. He did look sorry. “Okay,” he said warily. 

“So. Truce? Friends again?” 

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean was trying not to smile, his arms splayed out behind him to prop him up, toes burying into the comforter, eyes wide and faux-innocent. Sam suddenly wondered what Dean would say if he were to jump him, if he clambered all over him and pushed him down into the mattress, if he rolled him over and pushed his face into the sheets. He wondered how Dean would feel under his fingers, how he would fight back. Would he try to buck Sam off, try to wrestle him back down into the sheets instead? Would he try to get the upper hand, grab hold of Sam’s wrists and pin them above his head, grind down into him and crow in triumph like he used to do when they were kids, hissing out, “Say uncle, Sammy, go on, say it!” while Sam would bite his lip and refuse, pointlessly trying to fight back. Now though... now that Sam was taller and broader and bigger than Dean, maybe now he would win. He would be the one to pin Dean down, have him at his mercy, mess him up and have him begging Sam to let him go. 

He swallowed hard, nodded shortly. He forced himself to look away, to not see how Dean was sprawling all over the same place he slept and jerked off. The same place he’d fucked that kid only a few hours ago. 

“We should go,” he said. 

“Okay,” Dean said affably. He bounded off the bed, took out his phone. “I’ll call a cab.” 

Despite Dean’s protests that he hated shopping and he knew nothing about fashion, he seemed to be in his element. In every designer store they entered he grabbed hold of one of the staff, (invariably the hottest guy in the place), and made him follow them around, carrying all the various items of clothing Dean picked out. 

“I feel like I’m in _Pretty Woman_ ,” Sam murmured as Dean halted in front of a row of dress pants and started rifling through them. He didn’t even check the labels or prices, just held out a pair occasionally to the clerk, demanding, “I’ll try this in the 30 inch waist. No, not the black, the charcoal. Actually, no, wait a second – I’ll try both.” 

He turned back to Sam when he was done. “What was that you were saying, dude?” 

“Nothing, doesn’t matter,” Sam said with a sigh. 

Dean nodded to himself, already not listening. He slid out a dark red slim-fit shirt and frowned. “You like this?” 

“I guess,” Sam said. Dean tossed it in the direction of the clerk. “I’ll try that too. Hey,” he looked at Sam, “you should try something on.” He turned back to the clerk. “You got anything in his ginormo size? I bet you could do with a decent suit, huh, Sammy?” 

“No,” Sam hissed through his teeth. “No, I’m just fine, thanks.” 

“Oh c’mon.” Dean turned a grin on him, flashing his teeth and all the charm. “I don’t want to do this on my own. Try shit on with me. Get yourself something. My treat.” 

“Dean...” 

“Sam. I insist. Seriously.” He turned back to the clerk. “Hang all that stuff up in one of the dressing rooms. And then find something for him. A suit, some pants.” He glanced down at Sam’s jeans. “Jeans, definitely. Something fitted, less baggy.” He took a step towards Sam, smoothed the collar of his plaid shirt. His hand stroked down over the fabric, patting him gently. “I want to. Let me do this for you. I’ve got plenty of money, if you’re worried about that. I mean, there’s all the shit I make and then I’ve got this allowance that I never spend—“ 

“Lester gives you an allowance?” Sam interrupted. 

“Yeah. And it’s more than you make every month, so c’mon. Do this for me.” 

Sam looked around him, free clothes, free _designer_ clothes. There was a lot of nice stuff in here, stuff he could never dream of affording. And Dean obviously wanted this. Slowly he smiled, giving in. Dean exhaled, smiled back at him, nudged him in the side. “That’s my boy.” 

The dressing rooms were huge, as big as the locker room at the gym, mirrors on every wall, covering every angle, a couple of couches and hard-backed chairs. “So you can test that the pants look good when you’re sitting down,” Dean explained as he stood in front of one of the mirrors buttoning up one of the many shirts he’d picked out. 

“I thought you said you knew nothing about shopping,” Sam said. 

“I guess I’ve picked stuff up, doing what I do,” Dean said distractedly. He was leaning into the mirror, frowning at his reflection, nibbling on his lips and freaking _pouting_ at himself. 

Sam rolled his eyes, puffed out, “Right, so you didn’t need me to tag along after all.” He wrestled with the zipper on the seriously skin-tight jeans the clerk had picked out for him. “Jesus Christ, these are tight!” 

Dean dragged himself away from his own reflection and gave him an approving look. “They look good. They make your cock look huge.” 

Sam blushed, hissed, “Dean!” 

“What? It’s true! I’m just saying.” He chuckled, evilly. “You should get them. Wear them the next time you go cruising. Guys’ll be lining up to have you fuck them.” Sam glared at him but Dean was still smirking, those infuriating eyebrows arched up again. “C’mon, Sammy, quit acting like such a prude. I know you’re not. I know you had some guy over last night.” Sam glared harder. “What?” Dean finished buttoning the shirt and turned around to grab a pair of pants off the rack. “I saw the condoms in the trash, the bottle of lube and poppers on the nightstand, the wine glasses out on the coffee table. What was he like? You topped, right? Of course you topped.” 

“I’m ignoring you,” Sam said. He turned to check out his reflection. Dean was right about the jeans, they were really kinda obscene. He wasn’t sure if he’d dared wear them in public. He gave a half-turn, peered over his shoulder to check out his ass. 

“Ass looks good too,” Dean said. He took a couple of steps towards Sam. He was buttoning up his own pants, tucking in the shirt-tails, staring down at his fingers as they fixed the buttons. He looked up when he was done, checked himself out in the mirror, turning his head this way and that as he pivoted on the spot. “What do you think?” He took another couple of steps towards Sam, and Sam was suddenly aware that he was bare-chested, wearing the tightest pair of jeans known to man and Dean was standing really fucking close. Dean leaned into the mirror, drew his hand across his jaw. The stubble scraped against his wedding ring. He blinked at his reflection. “I look like crap,” he said. 

Sam gave him a look. “No you don’t. You know you don’t.” 

Dean angled his head to one side and smirked at Sam, smug and unrepentant. “Okay, maybe not all that bad.” He looked hard at Sam, smirk dropping away and expression darkening as his gaze raked down from Sam’s face, to his neck, his chest, pausing around his pecs and descending further to his abs and navel, to the ludicrously tight pants and the obvious shape of his cock, thickening, (God, fucking stupid thing), growing under his brother’s close scrutiny.

“You, though.” Dean hesitated, licked his lips. He raised one hand, tentatively reaching out. Sam felt his chest tighten, the breath catch at the back of his throat as Dean’s fingers brushed against his bare shoulder. He turned into the touch instinctively, staring at his brother’s mouth, at the way his teeth sunk into his bottom lip. Dean’s tongue came out and slicked thoughtlessly, needily over his lips. His fingers straightened out, splayed flat across the muscle of Sam’s shoulder and collarbone, fingertips grazing his throat. Slowly, Dean ran his hand downwards, skimming across Sam’s nipple, across the firm planes of his pecs, down to his abs. Sam held his breath, the muscles of his belly fluttered, jumped under Dean’s touch. His heart skittered as Dean raised his other hand to cup his jaw, his thumb tracing over the shape of Sam’s mouth. 

“You – your body. Christ,” Dean breathed. “Like a goddamn work of art. How did you get like this? Was it all that rowing, Sammy? Was that it?” 

“Dean...” Sam breathed, and then he was snatching for his brother’s hand, forcing him back against the mirror and falling into him all at once. Dean panted against him, hot breaths dissolving into Sam’s bare skin. Dean moaned, rolled his head back against the mirror to bare his neck, and Sam was there, leaning in and pressing his lips to his brother’s throat. He dragged his tongue through the stubble, fluttered kisses over his pulse point, over the firm line of his jaw, across his cheek and hovering just by the corner of his mouth. 

“God, Sam,” Dean groaned and his hands were in Sam’s hair. His lips parting and taking Sam’s mouth in a long, endless kiss, and Sam’s mind was spinning, stumbling back in time to the living room of their old house in Lawrence, to the day before their father’s funeral, remembering how his brother’s mouth had felt against his own. 

They kissed until they were gasping for breath, until Sam's lungs were bursting for air. He wrenched away, blinked, stared at his brother. Dean looked wrecked, mouth pummelled, lips puffy and shiny with Sam’s spit. Behind them, the mirror was foggy and smudged with their fingerprints. 

“Christ,” Dean breathed. He raised his hand to his mouth, and Sam could remember with perfect clarity how Dean had done the same thing that other time, how he'd touched his fingers against his lips before, as if he was feeling out the place where Sam had been. “My lips are tingling,” Dean murmured. He looked shell-shocked, eyes wide and terrified as they met Sam's. He pushed out a breath, a half-hysterical, half-disbelieving chuckle. “Christ. You – you always kiss like that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe?” 

“Jesus.” Dean laughed shakily, reached up to smooth his hand through Sam’s hair, pat it down. “Shit.” He turned, tried to step away but Sam snatched hold of his shoulder, tugged him around again. “Don’t,” he said. “Don’t pretend it didn’t happen. You kissed me back.” 

Dean stared back at him for what felt like a long moment then he ducked his head, pushed out a breath. “I. Sam. We gotta – we should pay for this stuff.” 

“Oh. Oh yeah, okay,” Sam said. “I. Yeah. Okay.” 

He stood close beside Dean as the clerk wrapped up their packages, close enough for their elbows to graze. Dean’s face was pink, colour high across his cheekbones and he was edgy, his eyes flicking sideways to Sam like he couldn’t help himself as he handed over the credit card and signed the receipt. 

“Thank you,” the clerk said smoothly. His eyes lingered over them as they turned to leave. “You two gentlemen have a nice day now.” 

“What do we do now?” Dean asked when they got outside. He wasn’t looking at Sam, passing the bags from one hand to the other, fidgeting in the middle of the sidewalk. Sam watched him; he felt weirdly calm, like he’d been expecting this moment for a long time. He placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder, felt Dean freeze underneath it, casting Sam a furtive, anxious look from under his lashes. 

“Let’s go get a drink,” Sam said. 

 

** 

 

They sat outside on the terrace so Dean could smoke, their bags piled up under the table between their legs. Dean was twitchy, one hand tapping out a rhythm on the table, the other holding his cigarette. 

“I didn’t know you were smoking again,” Sam said. 

“I’m not,” Dean replied, not looking at him. 

Sam snorted. “Right.” He took a pull on his beer, eying his brother from over the rim. “You know, it’s okay, Dean.” 

Dean shook his head disbelievingly. “No, it’s really not. And why the hell are you so damn calm anyway? You shouldn’t be this calm!” He took a long drag on his cigarette, blew the smoke out almost aggressively as he stared back at Sam. 

Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. I guess there’s this weird part of me that’s, like, I don’t know. That’s been sort of almost waiting for this to happen, like it was inevitable?” 

“ _What_?” 

“I don’t know. You asked me to explain why I felt so calm. I’m trying to do that.” 

“You’re not freaked out? At all? About,” Dean gestured twitchily between them, flicking ash from the end of his cigarette, “that doesn’t freak you out? You and me?” 

“I guess it doesn’t,” Sam said finally. “I don’t know, Dean, I’m just. I think I’ve been wanting this – wanting _you_ – for a long time.” 

“Christ.” Dean dropped his head into the hand not holding the cigarette. He rubbed the heel of his hand against his forehead vigorously, eyes downcast. He raised his head with what looked like an enormous effort and reached across the table to stub out the cigarette in the glass ashtray. “I am not okay with this, Sam.” 

“You kissed me back. In fact, you were the one who started it. The way you were touching me.” 

“It was those jeans, those fucking jeans,” Dean muttered darkly. 

Sam laughed, sudden and abrupt. He leaned over the table to regard his brother fondly. “It wasn’t just the jeans.” He smiled, tried to meet Dean’s eyes, tried to push some of his own strange, preternatural calmness onto him. “Dean, it’s okay. I’m okay with it. No one’s going to know. It’s okay.” 

“I’m married,” Dean said, and he sounded agonised, the look on his face distraught. 

Sam reached across the table, placed his hand over Dean’s where it lay beside the ashtray. Surprisingly, Dean didn’t try to pull his hand away, dropping his eyes to look down at Sam’s big hand blanketing his own. Sam entwined their fingers, his own fingers riding the ridges of Dean’s knuckles, the imprint of his brother’s wedding band against his palm. “I know,” he said. 

“And this.” Dean said, lifting his gaze to look back at Sam. “Sam, what this is—“ 

“I know,” Sam interrupted before Dean could say it. “God, I know too. But I don’t care. I think, I _know_ I want you, Dean. Ever since I came back here, ever since I first went to that house. Ever since, God, maybe even before that. You remember that night in Lawrence? You do remember it. Even before that. This feels like it’s been there forever, like it’s been a really long time coming and I can’t pretend and I can’t fool myself that this isn’t what this is.” He paused, swallowed again. He widened his eyes, pleading, his voice low and persuasive, “I know you want it too. Just – come back with me. Just this one time, just to – to see how it could be. Just this one time, Dean. Aren’t you curious? Come back to my place and we’ll.” He squeezed his brother’s hand. “Just this one time,” he pleaded. 

They were in the taxi. Sam’s leg shook as he stared out the window, watching the smart restaurants and stores of Rodeo Drive melt away behind them. His gaze flicked to the meter as it ticked up, cursing under his breath as they ran into more traffic. He glanced at his brother; saw the bob of his Adam’s apple, the pink flush in his cheeks as he stared out the window, the nervous jitter of his fingers against his thigh. As if he could feel Sam’s eyes on him, Dean turned his head, looked back at him. Sam felt his breath catch, his heart rate snap, his cock fill, the blood rush south making him feel dizzy. 

Dean paid for the taxi just like he’d paid for everything that day, brushing aside Sam’s protests. They didn’t wait for the elevator, but took the stairs together, carrying the bags between them. Sam fumbled for his keys, pushed open his apartment door with his shoulder, his hands full. He was thinking wildly, that kid – the night before – in his bed. They couldn’t, not in his bed, not on those sheets. He couldn’t put his brother on those used and dirty sheets. Dean should have something better, something special for their first time together. 

He dumped the bags on the floor, watched Dean do the same. Dean looked nervous, eyes flicking around the apartment, fingers flexing and unflexing at his hip. 

“You want a beer? Wine?” Sam said. “I gotta – my bed. The sheets. I gotta go change them.” 

“Fuck the sheets,” Dean growled. He moved fast, covering the distance between them until he was standing in front of Sam. “I don’t care about the sheets.” He slid his hand around Sam’s back, up to cup the nape of his neck. He pulled him down. 

This time the kiss was slower, but just as intense, just as overwhelming. Dean moaned and pushed his tongue into Sam’s mouth and Sam sucked on it greedily, fingers working, gripping, flexing around his brother’s biceps, manoeuvring him closer. Dean’s hands were everywhere, skittering up and down his back, tracing his spine and brushing over the dimples above his waist. 

“Dean, c’mon, move,” he groaned, and he was pulling Dean down. They both were sinking down, both of them hitting the floor with their knees. Their mouths peeled apart for a fraction of a second, for a gasp of breath, and then Dean’s mouth was on him once more, frantic, rough, clumsy. Sam shook under the onslaught, happy to just take it, let Dean eat at his mouth, let Dean’s fingers claw at him. Dean surged at him, pushed Sam back, climbed into his lap to straddle his waist. Sam shook and slid his hands down his brother’s back, finding and cupping his ass, one hand on each ass cheek. Dean groaned and whimpered as his cock, so thick and hard, ground down against Sam. 

Dean paused in his kissing and panted for breath, hot air skittering across Sam’s lips. He blinked hazily down at Sam. His mouth was wet and glossy, lips pummelled. There was a shiny thread of saliva hanging from his bottom lip. His eyes were wild and dark, cheeks fever-flushed. “Sammy,” he whispered. He pushed his hand into Sam’s hair, fisted it between his fingers. “Sammy,” he repeated. His tongue came out, flicked across his bruised lips, thoughtless and nervous. He blinked wonderingly down at Sam. 

Sam held his breath. He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of Dean’s jeans. “I think I want to fuck you. I think I _really_ want to fuck you. Would that be okay?” 

Dean laughed abruptly, his expression lighting up in a way that made Sam’s stomach clench tight. He cupped the side of Sam’s face, peered into his eyes. “I think that would be okay.” 

Sam knew that his brother was beautiful – being ridiculously good looking was Dean’s profession after all – and he’d seen it, been affected by it. But this was more than that, a lot more than that. Dean was his _brother_ and Sam hardly knew him. But he wanted to. He wanted to know everything about Dean, he wanted it so much that he was willing to overlook all the normal society taboos, overlook that Dean was married to someone he claimed to love, someone who loved him back. Dean looked almost shy when he stepped out of his boxers, his eyes half-closed and cheeks red, standing in the middle of Sam’s living room, his cock fat and full and surprisingly big, bobbing out at a perfect 90 degree angle, and Sam was speechless once again, overwhelmed by the fact that this person in front of him was _Dean_ , this was his big brother. 

“Jesus,” Sam breathed. “Come here.” He held out his hand, watched Dean walk towards him. He took his hand and curled their fingers together. He remembered watching Lester kiss the back of Dean’s knuckles and he felt a sudden flair of jealousy. Dean was gazing down at him, his cock level with Sam’s face, and he was trembling a little, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “You’re gorgeous, you know that?” Sam said. He tipped his head back, stared up at Dean. “You – all of you. Your cock.” He fisted his hand around it, squeezed hard, happy to see Dean shiver. He placed a kiss to the tip, smelling and tasting the salty, musky scent against his lips. 

“Fuckin’ tease,” Dean said and his voice was hoarse and blown-out, his eyes heavy-lidded. “Your turn now.” 

Sam grinned up at him, got to his feet. He leaned in, pressed a kiss to Dean’s lips. “Okay.” 

He took a couple of steps back, no self-consciousness as he peeled off his shirt and pushed down his jeans. Dean was staring at him, his tongue slicked across his lips, his eyes dark with desire. He didn’t wait for Sam to get his boxers off, but crowded forward into him, hooking his fingers into Sam’s shorts and tugging them down his legs, falling to his knees in front of him. He nosed at Sam’s crotch, Sam’s cock slapping against his cheek. He tilted his head back, licked up the underside. 

Sam shivered, dropped his hand to his brother’s forehead to push him back. “Don’t. If you do that we won’t ever get to the fucking.” 

Dean grinned, his mouth curled up wickedly, seemingly back to his usual cocky self. “I’m sure you got great recovery time.” 

They fucked on the floor, on their hands and knees, Sam bent over his brother, his chest welded to Dean’s back. Dean pushed back onto his cock, impaled himself on it, until Sam was bottoming out, his balls slapping against his brother’s ass. It felt like a race, but they had a rhythm; a frantic, off-key rhythm, racing and pushing and chasing after each other to the finish line. Dean’s knees skidded on the carpet, his fingers dug fruitlessly into the thin shag to get purchase. Sweat rolled down Sam’s face and body and dripped onto the high curving arch of his brother’s spine. He licked the back of Dean’s neck, slid his tongue into Dean’s hairline and tasted both their sweat. 

Dean shuddered and his big, thick cock twitched and pulsed in Sam’s fist as come spattered over Sam’s fingers and splashed onto the carpet. His ass muscles clenched around Sam’s dick and Sam shivered at the pressure, Dean’s body still riding out the shocks of his orgasm. Dean moaned and Sam felt his own orgasm soar and explode and slam into him with a full body force. He fell on top of Dean, buried his face in his brother’s shoulder. They staggered forward, the firm, strong muscles of Dean’s arms the only thing holding them up as Sam sagged across his brother’s back. 

“Christ, Sam,” Dean panted. He hung his head, gave a long, drawn-out groan and collapsed, sinking into the carpet. 

Sam fell with him, still blanketing him. He rolled his head against his brother’s back, kissed absently at the sweaty, shiny patches of skin, dotted with freckles. His cock was softening in Dean’s ass, and he drew it out carefully, flopped onto his side, still trembling from the after effects of his orgasm. 

“That was – that was—“ 

“Amazing,” Dean finished. He raised his head from where it lay pillowed on his arms. He looked dazed. He grinned sloppily at Sam. “Fucking amazing.” 

Sam laughed shakily. “Yeah, c’mere.” He rolled them onto their backs. Dean groaned and slumped over him, rested his head on Sam’s chest. 

“I’m exhausted,” he said, the words muffled by Sam’s skin, the reverberation of his voice sending delicious chills through Sam’s bloodstream. 

Sam lifted his hand, stroked it through Dean’s sweat-wet hair. “Hmmm, just rest for a moment, then – again. I want to do that again.” 

Dean chuckled, turned his head to press his lips to a spot just under Sam’s left nipple. “Yeah, okay.” 

 

**

 

“What time is it?” Dean murmured, lifting his head from Sam’s chest hours later. 

It had gotten dark at some point. The street lamps from outside and the glow of the standby lights on his TV and DVR provided the only light in the room. Sam lifted his left arm, squinted at his watch. 

“I don’t know, I can’t see,” he said. 

Dean snorted and pushed himself to his feet. He crouched down by his discarded jeans and pulled out his phone. “Shit,” he said glancing at the display. “Four missed calls.” He licked his lips, stared back at Sam. “I – I should call him back.” 

“Okay. You can use the bedroom if you want.” 

He watched Dean vanish into the bedroom, heard the low, muffled sound of his voice when he started to speak. He’s talking to Lester, his husband, thought Sam. His heart skipped a beat, a buzz of adrenalin rushed through him. I’m like the other woman, he thought, I’m Dean’s guilty secret. 

He glanced down at himself, noticing for the first time that the condom was still hanging off the end of his softened cock. He pulled it off, held it gingerly between two fingers. He got up, padded to the kitchen and tossed it in the trash. He stared through the open kitchen door into the living room, at the stained carpet, the coffee table shoved to one side, the tube of lube half-used and oozing on top of it, their strewn clothes. He stared at the spot, at the place where they’d done it – _done it_ – the place where he’d fucked his brother. He shivered. He felt restless, strange, excited and terrified all at once. He needed a drink. 

He pulled open the refrigerator, took out two beers, carried them into the living room, pausing to turn on one of the lamps. Dean was standing by the bedroom door, still naked. He glanced at Sam, lifted his hand to scratch at the back of his neck. He looked a little embarrassed. Sam held out one of the beers to him and Dean took it gratefully. 

“Thanks, man.” 

“No problem.” 

Sam sank down onto the couch, watched Dean cross the floor and put the beer on the coffee table. He pulled on his boxers, then his jeans, his shirt. He picked up the beer again, straightened. “Can I smoke?” he asked. 

“Oh yeah. Sure, sure thing,” Sam said. 

He felt awkward, aware all of a sudden that he was naked while Dean was dressed again. 

“So, um. I think I’m gonna stay the night. That’s if it’s okay with you?” Dean flicked him a look, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. 

Sam’s stomach gave a lurch and he nodded, pushing out a long, relieved breath. “God, yes. Of course it is.” 

Dean shook a cigarette out of the pack, placed it between his lips, slid his lighter out of the pocket of his jeans. “I told him where I was. Who I was with.” He flicked his lighter, white yellow flame sparking. “You’re the perfect alibi. Just spending the night with my little brother. Nothing to suspect.” He took a drag on his cigarette, looked around. 

“Oh, uh, yeah, of course, an ashtray. I have one somewhere.” Sam pushed to his feet, went into the kitchen, rifled through cupboards, came back with the ashtray he only ever used when Craig and his quality marijuana came over. “Use this,” he said, placing it down on the coffee table beside Dean’s beer. 

“Thanks,” Dean muttered. He leaned forward, flicked the ash from the end of the cigarette. He pushed his other hand into his hair, sighed. “God, I feel – I feel awful. I hate this. Hate lying to him.” 

“I’m sorry,” Sam said automatically. 

Dean gave him a look. “Yeah. Sure you are.” 

“Dean—“ 

Dean raised a hand. “Don’t. Spare me. You’re not sorry. Don’t pretend to be.” 

Sam watched his brother smoke for a few beats. “Okay.” 

Dean nodded, blew out a breath. His hands were clasped together, hanging between his spread knees. The cigarette smoke curled up in front of his face. “I’m not sorry. That we did this,” he said. “I’m not sorry. And – I don’t want to think about everything else – about him. Not here.” 

“Okay,” Sam nodded again. “Okay whatever you want. I mean, I want whatever you want, Dean.” 

“Right.” Dean leaned forward, ground out the remains of his cigarette into the ashtray. He looked up at Sam through his eyelashes. “Then you should change your sheets. We’re gonna need that bed.” 

 

** 

 

They did it the other way too. Sure, Sam preferred to top, but he could be versatile. There was nothing better than being fucked hard by a guy who knew what he was doing, and when the guy had a cock as big and beautiful as Dean’s, it would be a travesty not to get fucked by it. 

Dean took him face to face, pushed into him with his eyes boring dark and iridescent down into Sam’s, with his mouth biting and marking at Sam’s lips and chin, with his tongue slavering over Sam’s throat and teeth sinking into the meat of his shoulder because although Sam couldn’t mark Dean, Dean could mark him and he wanted to. Dean was hungry to mark him, to leave bruises and marks across Sam’s body, to trace them afterwards with exploring, wondering hands. He drove into Sam relentlessly and Sam gripped onto the headboard behind him, felt it rattle and shake against the wall, his ass in the air and his legs gripped around his brother’s waist. 

Dean cried out, Sam’s name tumbling from his lips, as he came. Sam felt the twitching and throbbing of his brother’s cock in his ass, getting one loose, scrabbling hand to his own dick to bring himself off. Once they were done, Dean pulled out, leaned into him to press a kiss to his shoulder before he rolled away to tug off the condom. Sam went with him, hooked his chin over his brother’s hip and watched Dean knot the condom and drop it to the floor. 

“Gross,” he murmured, and he planted a kiss on Dean’s hipbone. 

They shared a cigarette, Dean propped up against the headboard and Sam sprawled in the V of his thighs, head lolling against Dean’s collarbone. He tipped it back to receive kisses, so Dean could hold the cigarette between his lips and he could take a drag, the filter already damp from Dean’s saliva. 

“I wish we had pot,” Dean murmured, leaning over Sam to grind out the remains in the ashtray. He dipped his head, put his lips against Sam’s. “I would love to get high with you.” 

Sam chuckled, the noise reverberating against Dean’s lips. He reached up to pat Dean’s hair, smooth his fingers against his cheeks, trace over his freckles. 

“If we’d grown up together, I bet you’d have done that. Scored me pot and taught me how to shotgun, like an awesome older brother. You would’ve been such an awesome older brother.” 

“What d’you mean? I am an awesome older brother. Didn’t I just give you the best orgasm of your life?” Dean protested, eyebrows climbing up his forehead. 

“One of the best,” Sam corrected, smirking. 

“Take that back!” 

“Make me.” 

Dean grinned and pounced, rolling and tangling them in the sheets. Sam laughed breathlessly and tried to fight him off, getting his leg around Dean and hitching his hips up. Dean arched his back and angled his head to look down at him, pushing Sam’s hair off his face and smiling lasciviously at him. “You want more, is that it?” he said. 

“Yeah, I want more,” Sam said. He saw Dean’s tongue come out, slick across his lips. “You gonna give me more?” 

Dean hesitated, glanced at the clock on Sam’s nightstand and Sam suddenly wanted to knock it off, send it crashing to the floor. Time and the rest of the world and everything else shouldn’t matter here. Here they were just two guys, just two guys who wanted to get lost in each other’s bodies. 

“Don’t,” he said, “don’t look. Just look at me, Dean. Close your eyes and look at me.” 

Dean stared at him for what felt like a long time. “That doesn’t even make sense.” 

“Yes it does,” Sam said. He leaned up, framed his brother’s face between his hands, and stared into his eyes. “Close your eyes, Dean.” 

Dean closed his eyes.


	5. Chapter 5

Mom kept all their old photograph albums in the sideboard in the living room. Sam piled the dusty tomes up on the floor and sat on the carpet to flick through them, letting his coffee get cold as he paged through the years. 

Dean had not been an attractive baby, and as a four year old he didn’t get much better. Admittedly, the bowl haircut didn’t help, but he seemed curiously averse to the camera, staring angrily at whoever was taking the pictures every single time. It wasn’t until Sam was a toddler, an apparently happy, perma-smiley toddler with tangled dark curls that Dean seemed to learn how to smile. And then the two of them were all teeth and dimples and dungarees and mini plaid shirts and freckles in Dean’s case, lots of freckles. 

Sam lingered over the pictures of their parents. Mom’s various hairstyles: Farah Fawcett to Victoria Principle to Joan Collins to a particularly scary do that combined Demi Moore and Martha Stewart at their worst. Dad’s fashions were unchanging, the same no-nonsense short haircut that Dean had copied and a succession of plaid shirts. He paused at one photograph: himself, about three years old and Dad. Dad’s big, warm smile, his chin resting on little Sammy’s head, amongst the brown curls, his big hand curled around Sam’s small one. Another picture: _John and the boys, Lawrence, Summer, 1987_ : himself on Dad’s shoulders, his small hands in Dad’s hair, his smile blinding, Dad’s hands locked around his short legs in their brown corduroy dungarees to hold him in place, and Dean standing beside them, his face pressed into his father’s side and fingers snagged in Dad’s belt. 

He lingered over one professional family portrait, the caption underneath reading _Christmas 1989_. He was six and Dean was nearly eleven, the two of them in matching Christmas sweaters and slacks. Dad in a tucked-in denim shirt, probably his idea of something fancy, and Mom in a massively shouldered-padded, magenta sweater dress, all four of them smiling genially at the camera. He remembered that picture sitting on top of the TV in their old house in Lawrence, and at some point, after he and Mom had left, someone had removed it. 

The last picture in the last album was of Dean holding up his driver’s permit in one hand and Mom’s car keys in the other, looking immensely pleased with himself. Sam stared at the picture, remembering that day, the day Mom and Dad had told them that their marriage was over. This picture must’ve been taken earlier in the day, before everything fell apart. 

He thumped the album closed, gazed around him at the photographs decorating Mom and Greg’s living room. The ones that had become part of the furniture, as Lester would say. His own and Dean’s high school graduation pictures; his formal college graduation picture; Mom and him at his college graduation, standing on the lush green lawns of Stanford University; Mom and Greg at his college graduation, dressed like they were attending a wedding; him and the rest of the Stanford Cardinals rowing crew in their red jerseys; and at the end of the mantelpiece, Dean and Lester’s wedding picture. He shuffled across the carpet on his knees, lifted the frame off the mantelpiece, and stared down at his brother’s and Lester’s smiling faces. 

“Old photographs, what’s got you so nostalgic?” 

He jumped, jerked his head around to see Mom come into the room and look around, her expression preoccupied. She didn’t wait for a response, just sighed and said, “Put them away when you’re done, Sam. And straighten up in here. They’ll be here soon.” 

He got to his feet and carefully slotted all the albums away. All of them, except that last one, the one with the picture of sixteen year old Dean. He carried it up to his old bedroom and dropped it into his messenger bag, covering it up like it was something to be ashamed of. He sat on the edge of his bed and dropped his head into his hands. He felt on edge, an unsettled, unhappy knot in his gut. He glanced at himself in the mirror, at his blue and white plaid shirt. He made a face at his reflection, huffed out an amused breath. Plaid, huh? Obviously, he at least had one thing in common with his father, but who knew fashion sense could be genetic. He tugged the shirt off and opened his closet. 

Most of the clothes in there were too small or too old, stuff he hadn’t bothered bringing to his own apartment, but he flicked through them anyway. Jesus, so much plaid, it wasn’t even funny. He tugged open the t-shirt drawer on his dresser, pulled out his old Stanford Athletic shirt. It was a little tight, but it still fit. He eyed himself in the mirror in the inside of his closet door. Okay, so it was quite a lot tight, stretching and emphasising the muscles of his chest and shoulders. But that was good, right? That was hot. Maybe more hot for a night out at _Dreamz_ kind of hot than dinner with the family kind of hot, but whatever, he looked good. Dean would notice. 

He flicked his tongue over his lips, pouted at his reflection, then feeling self-conscious, he made a face at himself, wrinkled his nose and rolled his eyes. He heard the sound of the front door bell and hesitated, listened to the door open and close, the sound of voices. He smoothed down the front of his shirt and closed the closet. 

Dean and Lester were standing in the living room, making conversation with Greg. Mom met him coming through from the kitchen and passed him a couple of glasses of wine. “For your brother and Lester. Can you take them, sweetheart?” 

He took them from her, glad she didn’t notice his change of clothing. He stepped into the living room, feeling everybody’s eyes swing his way. 

“Um, I got your wine,” he said lamely, holding out one glass to Lester and then to Dean. Dean was wearing the amulet, the charm glinting against his pale grey tee. His eyes met Sam’s for a fraction of a second and Sam felt his heart skip a beat. He turned and ducked back out into the hall and down to the kitchen. Mom looked up at him as he entered. 

“Do you need some help?” he offered. 

“No, that’s okay, Sam. You go talk – catch up. I got things covered here.” 

“Um, yeah, okay.” He poured himself a glass of wine, a big one, and looked up when he heard footsteps, surprised to see Dean standing in the kitchen doorway. 

“Mom,” Dean said, looking past him at their mother, “is it alright if I step outside for a smoke?” 

Mom made a face but she gave in, biting her lip as she watched Dean open the back door and head out into the yard. “I, uh, I might go join him,” Sam said, staring through the kitchen window where Dean was reaching into his jacket pocket for his packet of cigarettes. 

“Sam,” Mom started to say, disapproval seeping into her voice. 

“Mom, I’m twenty-four. Seriously. And you didn’t say anything about Dean,” he protested. 

“Dean’s different,” she said quietly. 

He stared at her hunched shoulders, at the way her fingers gripped the stirring spoon. He went to stand beside her, placed his hand on her shoulder. “I’ll be good,” he said, smiling in that way that made his dimples show. “I promise.” 

She rolled her eyes at him and batted his hands away. “Alright, go keep your brother company.” 

He nodded and slipped outside. Dean looked up at the sound of the backdoor closing and watched him with a strange, guarded look as Sam strolled towards him. He hooked one leg over the picnic bench and sank down onto it, feeling the prickly, roughened wood through the seat of his jeans. 

“I take it you wore that for my benefit,” Dean said, gesturing at his shirt with the end of his cigarette. 

Sam grinned and tilted his head to one side. “You like it?” 

“You should wear it with those new jeans. You’ll be beating the boys off with a stick.” 

“Maybe I’m not interested in the boys, maybe there’s only one person I want to impress.” 

Dean gave him a long look, but there was a flicker of amusement at the edge of his mouth, something he was trying and failing to suppress. “Right.” 

He rested his elbows on the table, flattened his palms down against the wood. He’d gotten a palm full of splinters once from this table, years ago. They’d been so deeply embedded Mom had taken him to the emergency room to get them removed. They’d had to wait ages to be seen, and when they finally were seen, the asshole doctor on duty had told them that the emergency room was supposed to be for emergencies only. Mom had almost cried and he’d felt guilty. 

“I haven’t been with anyone else since we... you know. If that’s what you’re implying. I can’t even think about anybody else.” 

Dean arched a disbelieving eyebrow. “Is that right?” He sank down onto the bench opposite, crossed his arms on top of the table, cigarette smoke curling up into the air between them. 

“Yeah, that’s right, Dean. I told you, you’re all I think about. I thought about you in bed last night, in the shower this morning. My dick’s seeing a lot of action, but it’s all self-inflicted. And you’re the only feature.” 

“Jesus,” Dean said. He inhaled, held the smoke in for a moment before exhaling. “This is so fucked up.” 

Sam snorted. “Yeah.” He looked around at the neatly cut grass, the shed at the bottom of the yard where Greg kept his tools and the lawn mower. Sam’s old bikes, his roller skates and other outdoors toys were still in that shed. He’d played with sprinklers here, had birthday parties and holiday parties. He’d thrown up in the rosebushes in the corner for the first time ever. This yard was part of his life. He’d grown up here. It seemed wrong that it didn’t hold any memories for Dean. 

“So. Uh, when are you next in the city?” he asked. 

“I’ve got a job. The one I told you about? The Times shoot. It’s on Wednesday, Thursday too,” Dean answered. “They’re putting us up in a hotel overnight.” 

Sam’s stomach flipped over. He swallowed, trying to force down his excitement. “So we could—“ 

“Could what, Sam?” Dean was enjoying this, enjoying watching Sam beg for it. “What could we do?” 

Sam leaned forward across the table, bringing their faces closer together. “I’d love to spell it out to you right now. Tell you exactly what I want to do to you: how I want to explore every inch of your body, worship every inch of your body. How I want to push my tongue inside you.” Dean snorted and ducked his head. He was blushing, Sam saw, the realisation making the heat flood into his belly and balls. He placed his hand over his brother’s wrist where it lay on top of the table. He ran his forefinger over the fine bones, the blue veins on the back of Dean’s hand. He could feel Dean tremble, see his pupils grow bigger, that pink tongue come out to wet his lips. “I want to kiss you so badly it hurts. I want to touch you and put my hands on you. I want to feel your gorgeous big cock in my mouth, feel you get huge and fat in my mouth.” 

“Jesus, Sam. _Here_? Do you have to say that shit here?” 

Sam chuckled evilly and licked his lips. “It’s the truth. I want to touch you all the time. I think about it all the time. Do you, Dean? Do you think about it?” 

Dean slanted him a look, a quick flick of his eyelashes. “What do you think?” He licked his lips again, pulled his hand out of Sam’s grasp, rubbed it over his mouth and jaw. “God. We’re at Mom’s house.” He ground the cigarette out against the top of the table, dropped the butt onto the ground. 

Sam sighed. “Yeah, I know, I just.” He broke off, shrugged helplessly. “Just wanted you to know. What you do to me, Dean.” 

Dean forced out a half-laugh, half-groan and got up from the table. He glanced back towards the house before he adjusted his jeans, giving Sam a teasing look from under his eyelashes. Sam laughed and swung his leg over the bench, standing up. He circled the table, came to a halt in front of his brother. He glanced towards the house, quickly checking before he laid his hand on Dean’s forearm, wrapping his fingers around the muscle, staring down at the soft, golden hairs, the occasional freckle, the crease to his elbow glimmering with sweat. He stared at the amulet, lying against Dean’s chest, as ugly and kitschy as the day he’d bought it. Dean must’ve thought about him when he put it on that morning. Dean was wearing it for him. 

He dragged his finger over Dean’s skin, over the soft, fine hairs on his arm. “Wednesday? Thursday then?” 

“Yeah, I’ll text you.” 

“Okay.” He sighed and turned away from Dean. “We should go back in.” 

He tried not to look at Dean too much over dinner, tried to eat and make conversation and be normal, his brain continuously reminding him to act normal, be normal. He ate sparingly and Dean seemed to eat even less, his gaze flicking around everyone, distracted and restless. He got up twice between courses to go outside for a smoke, and Sam let him go, deciding it was probably best for both their sanities for him not to follow every time. 

It was over coffees that Mom gave the news, the reason for their family lunch. Sam knew already, she and Greg had told him the night before.

“Greg and I, we’ve got an announcement to make,” she said as she finished pouring the coffee. 

“You’re pregnant,” Dean said, “well, congratulations, Mom.” 

“Oh no, no. I’m a little too old for that, honey. No. Umm.” She glanced towards Greg who gave a subtle nod and reached over to take her hand. “We’re getting married.” 

“Congratulations, Mom,” Sam said. He got up from the table, rounded it to press a kiss to her cheek. She turned her head to receive it, patted the side of his face, smiling at him. 

“Thanks, baby.” 

“Well, that is wonderful news!” exclaimed Lester, getting to his feet and stretching out his hand to Greg. “You have my warmest congratulations. Although, I was under the impression you were already married.” 

“No, not officially,” Mom said. 

“Dad never granted her a divorce,” Dean said, looking at his husband as he retook his seat. “He refused.” He turned back to Mom. “You know, you could’ve fought him, gotten it pushed through anyway. You didn’t have to wait for him to buy the farm before you made it all,” he drew out the word, “official.” 

Mom’s expression fell a little but she seemed to recover, a brittle steeliness sink into her features, the set to her eyes narrow in on her oldest son. “I know. I know that, Dean. I just wanted to do things properly.” She glanced sideways at Greg, squeezed his hand, wanting to draw him into the conversation. “We weren’t even sure that we wanted to do it. After all, we’ve been together for thirteen years. Living in sin for thirteen years,” she added with a nervous laugh. “And we’ve managed just fine.” 

“It was my decision,” Greg put in. “I asked her and she said yes.” 

“Well, I think it’s wonderful news,” said Lester, “and I wish you’d given me notice, Mary, I would’ve brought some champagne. You must let me provide the champagne for the wedding. No – wait! I insist. It would give me great pleasure. I could provide from my own estates, though of course, it won’t _officially_ be champagne. Not when the French are so tedious about the terminology being employed just right – so absurd. But we did experiment, quite successfully I think, with a sparkling white last year. I could supply the red and white too, free of charge of course – family rates. The Winchester vintage perhaps? Though actually, on second thoughts, that might not be appropriate.” 

Dean snorted. “Maybe not,” he said, reaching over to pat his husband’s hand. 

Lester took his hand, curled their fingers together. Sam stared down at their entwined hands, at the platinum wedding band on his brother’s finger, at Lester’s long clever fingers entangled with Dean’s. 

“Mary,” Lester said, lifting Dean’s hand and bringing it to his lips. “I only hope that you and Greg will be as happy as Dean and I have been so far.” 

_Yeah, whatever,_ Sam thought desperately. He stared across the table at his brother, but Dean was steadfastly not looking at him, all his attention on Lester. 

“Of course you will be great together. You’re already great together and after thirteen years, I’m pretty sure you don’t need any luck or best wishes, but I will give them to you anyway. Here,” Lester raised his glass, glanced around the table, “a toast, I think. To Mary and Greg.” They all raised their glasses, leaned across the table to clink together. Sam kept staring at his brother, but Dean met his eyes only briefly, before looking immediately away. “Now, when’s the wedding going to be?” 

 

**

 

GOT OFF SHOOT EARLY. AT FOUR SEASONS, WILSHIRE BLVD. COME JOIN ME. ROOM 611. 

Sam snapped his phone shut and drew his hand across the back of his mouth. He glanced at his watch. 12.03pm. The Four Seasons was a couple of miles away, he’d have to take a cab. A nooner. He was taking a nooner. He bit his lip on the ridiculous giggle that surged up to the back of his throat. He’d have to tell Dave something – not about the nooner, that wouldn’t go down well. But an appointment. A meeting. He’d call Jamie at AIA; ask him. The guy owed him. Hell, the whole freaking company owed him, he hadn’t taken a real lunch break in, well, ever. 

He control-alt-deleted and locked his computer screen. He got to his feet and snatched up his suit jacket from the back of his chair. He rode the elevator down to the first floor with his hands in fists. He was going to see Dean again. He really shouldn’t be feeling this nervous about it. 

He flagged down the first taxi he saw and climbed inside, telling the driver to get him to the Four Seasons as soon as he could. He dialled Dave’s extension from his phone and told him he was heading over to AIA for a meeting. Dave barely listened to him, just murmured, “Yeah, okay, whatever, Sam. Catch you, later,” and hung up. 

He snapped his phone shut with a sigh of relief then reopened it again to shoot off a quick text to Dean. ON MY WAY. His palms felt clammy. He wiped them on his pants, peered out the window at the slow-moving traffic. The taxi finally drew up outside the hotel and he paid and got out. He was sweating; he could feel it trickle down the back of his neck and between his shoulder blades, tickling the small of his back. He strode into the hotel lobby, grateful for the waft of deliciously cool air-conditioning. 

An elevator arrived just as he pressed the call button and a group of businessmen stepped out, clutching identical shiny white brochures under their arms. One of them (cute, dark-eyed, dark-eyed) met Sam’s eyes as he waited for them to get out of the way. The guy’s mouth flicked up at the corner and he gave Sam a quick, unsubtle once-over before smirking and turning to rejoin his friends. Sam watched his ass as he walked away; he was cute, sure, but Dean was better. 

His heart was beating fast as he made his way down the corridor to room 611. He rapped on the door, ran his hands through his hair again. The door opened, and Dean was standing there, barefoot and wearing a white cotton bathrobe. 

“That was quick,” Dean said. 

“I couldn’t wait.” He pushed into the room, the door thudded shut behind him, and then his hands were on Dean, unknotting his robe and sliding it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor in whoosh of heavy fabric, and Dean was standing in front of him completely naked. Sam placed his hands on his brother’s shoulders and walked him backwards to the bed. Dean sank down onto the edge of the mattress, tipped his head back. 

“I got myself ready for you,” he said. 

“Jesus, Dean,” Sam groaned. He planted his palm in the middle of his brother’s chest and forced him backwards. 

Afterwards, they both lay on their sides in the bed, facing each other. It felt intimate, like a scene from a French movie, the sheets tangled and their hair dishevelled, red creases in Dean’s cheek and temple from the pillowcase.

“You didn’t tell me how the shoot went. You were done early,” Sam said. 

Dean blinked lazily, said, “Not done. It hasn’t even gotten started. There were issues with the location. They’re gonna reschedule.” 

“Oh, well, lucky for me, I guess.” 

“Lucky for you.” He fell silent again and Sam kissed his temple, the corner of his eye. Dean smiled softly and closed his eyes. 

“I could stay here forever,” Sam said. 

“Mmm. That would be nice but you should probably get going.” 

Sam drew back and made a face. “I don’t want to.” 

“ _I don’t want to_ ,” Dean mocked. “You’re such a brat.” 

“Shut up,” Sam retorted automatically. 

Dean laughed and prodded him in the shoulder. “Go on. Get up. Go back to work.” 

Sam groaned again but he rolled over and swung his legs to the floor. He got to his feet, looking around him at his discarded and crumpled clothing. He bent down to pick up his shirt and held it up, regarding it ruefully. “Shit.” 

“You should’ve thought about that before you were throwing me down on the bed and ravaging me,” Dean said smugly. Sam turned around to glare at him; he’d propped himself up into a sitting position, sprawled over their pillows. He was naked and sweaty, his chest and cheeks pink, his cock lying flaccid and spent over one thigh. He looked debauched and Sam wanted nothing more than to jump back on the bed and do it all over again. 

They made out against the closed door of the room after they were both dressed, the cliché of illicit lovers about to part. He was late, he’d already taken two hours, but he didn’t care. He rocked Dean against the door, his hands bracketing Dean’s head, one knee between his parted legs. 

“Sam, Sam, c’mon…” Dean breathed between kisses. “C’mon, we gotta – you gotta.” 

Sam detached his mouth from his brother’s throat and blinked hazily at him. “When? When can I see you again?” 

Dean groaned and caressed Sam’s cheek. “I dunno. There might be a weekend.” 

“A weekend?” 

“Mmm, yeah. He’s going away. New York, for the weekend. He wants me to go with him, I usually go with him—“ 

“Don’t, don’t go. God, Dean, the entire weekend. Just think. We wouldn’t have to leave the bed.” 

Dean chuckled, the sound soft and low, buzzing between them. “Yeah. I know. I was thinkin’ about it.” 

“When?” 

“Couple of weeks.” 

Sam groaned. He dragged his thumb over Dean’s lower lip, kissed his left eyebrow, his temple. “You have to. Please. You can’t just talk about this and not follow through.” 

“Sammy, I always follow through.” He pushed Sam’s hair back from his face, kissed the edge of his jaw. “I’ll figure it out, okay?” 

Sam nodded, kissed him again. “Yeah, okay.” 

 

** 

 

Sam couldn’t concentrate on Friday, his stomach churned and his body felt jittery and the sushi he’d gotten for lunch stuck in his throat when he tried to eat it. He forced himself through his to do list with the kind of discipline his old coxswain would’ve been proud of. He left work early and headed for the gym, looking to burn off some nervous tension. He did 90 minutes on the rowing machine and steadfastly thought of nothing except the metres and kilometres ticking away on the machine’s digital display, working his body backwards and forwards, savouring the burn in his quads and biceps. 

Dean arrived at his apartment just after seven, carrying a bag of groceries and looking extremely pleased with himself. He pushed past Sam at the door and strolled into the kitchen like he belonged there. Sam shut the door behind him and followed, pleased to see his brother acting so at home in his apartment. He paused at the kitchen door and watched Dean take groceries out the bag: green beans, potatoes, garlic, dried pasta, an enormous bunch of fresh basil, pecorino cheese, and a bottle of what looked like the infamous Winchester vintage. 

“Hi, Dean. Yeah, it’s nice to see you too,” he said conversationally

Dean glanced at him over his shoulder, not halting in his unpacking. He folded up the bag when he was done, placed it neatly by the refrigerator. 

“Do you have a pan for boiling pasta?” he said. 

Sam blinked at him then he crouched down and opened the cupboard by the stove. He took out his biggest saucepan and held it up to his brother, craning his head back to look up at him. “This do?” 

“That would be perfect,” Dean said, taking it from him. 

Sam watched him from his crouching position then snagged his hand in the back pocket of Dean’s jeans. “Hey.” 

Dean looked down at him. “See something you like there, Sammy?” 

“Damn fucking right.” He splayed his fingers over the curve of his brother’s ass, dragged his forefinger over the crease to tease between his thighs. “Wanna suck you, Dean, wanna open you up with my tongue.” 

“Mmmm.” Dean made a face like he was pretending to think, half-closing his eyes, a smirk playing across his mouth. He opened his eyes again, shook his head. “Nope, not now. Now, I’m going to cook. I’ve had nothing to eat all day, fucking castings. Now, get up. I want you to crush some garlic.” 

They made some pasta dish with green beans, potatoes and pesto. Dean tutted and grumbled over the state of Sam’s kitchen and his lack of a pestle and mortar, something apparently every kitchen should have. Sam tried to imagine the old Dean, the one who’d eaten burgers for dinner five times a week making a fuss over a freaking pestle and mortar. Dad wouldn’t have even known what one was. 

“I think I might have a jar of pesto in the fridge,” he started to say but Dean gave him a pitying look so he closed his mouth and went back to chopping up basil. 

Despite Sam’s tragically under-equipped kitchen, the food was delicious. They ate at the coffee table in the living room, sitting close together on the floor, their knees and elbows brushing. 

“Hmmm,” Sam moaned, sucking a long strand of linguine into his mouth and smiling at his brother. “You’re really fucking good at this, Dean.” 

Dean grinned smugly. “I try.” 

“I’m gonna stink of garlic.” 

“Hell, me too,” said Dean with a shrug. He leaned over to refill their wine glasses. “I can’t eat like this most of the time. My weight hits 170 and my agent’s on my back. He’s, like, got these freaking laser eyes,” he gestured with his fingers, “like, he can take one look at me, just one up and down, and he can tell straight away. Oh my God, he’s gained two pounds! And then it’s all: _no carbs for a week, Dean._ ” He made a face, took a sip of his wine. “It sucks.” 

He made a sympathetic face. “Yeah, I can imagine. But you look great. Really great.” 

“You say that, but this gig, man. It’s not good for the old self-esteem. You wouldn’t believe the shit these casting directors say to me. There are these dudes, way younger than me. Like, twenty two, twenty three, younger than you even, and they’ve had shit done. Freaking Botox. In fact, this one guy said to me a couple of weeks ago: we’re looking for something younger, something _fresher_.” He endowed the word with the contempt it deserved. “It’s such bullshit. I’m twenty-eight and I’m being sent for these mature type of gigs – which is fine by me, whatever. But, Jesus.” 

“Why’d you do it then? Just give it up if you hate it so much.” 

“I don’t _hate_ it,” he said. “I mean, it’s not like I’m slinging burgers or mopping up piss for minimum wage. I’m lucky. I get paid a lot of money for standing around and posing.” 

“Money’s not everything.” 

“Says somebody who’s always had plenty of it.” 

“But you have money now,” Sam insisted. “It’s not like it used to be. You could do anything, Dean, I mean it. You could go back to school. Finish college. You did, what? Three semesters—“ 

“Two and a half,” Dean interrupted, “and I’m pretty sure the half doesn’t count.” 

“Whatever. You could go back to college. The cost isn’t an issue. You could study engineering, aeronautics or mechanical engineering. You’d love that and you’d be so good at it.”

“You sound like Lester.” Dean took another long sip of his drink, raised his eyebrows as he placed the glass back on the coffee table. “He’s always talking at me about fulfilling my potential.”

“Oh,” Sam said. He cleared his throat, thoughts racing. He watched Dean finish his glass then refill it once more before leaning back against the couch and regarding Sam with a look in his eyes that made Sam’s chest feel tight. 

“He’s smart, I get it. He’s really fuckin’ smart, and he likes hanging out with smart people. Like you. I could never understand the sort of shit you do. Economics, markets, stocks, funds. It means nothing to me. And I know what they all think – all his friends. I can see it in their faces. At least, with the modelling, I can pay my own way. I’m not just his trophy husband.” 

Sam hesitated, surprised by the vehemence in Dean’s words. “Dean,” he said, but Dean held up his hand, said quickly, “Don’t. Forget it, Sam. I don’t want to talk about it. What I want is a smoke.” Sam pressed his lips shut and watched Dean shake a cigarette out of the packet lying on the table. Dean looked up at him as he lit up. “How about you get some more booze?” 

They shared another cigarette and beers after the wine was gone. They were still on the floor; Dean slumped against the side of the couch and Sam’s head in his lap, Dean’s hand ruffling through his hair. It felt easy and nice and weirdly domestic, and Sam couldn’t remember the last time he felt this relaxed and happy. 

He stared up at the underside of his brother’s chin, at the fine bones and tendons of his throat. He was wearing the amulet again, the charm hidden under his shirt. Sam hooked one finger underneath the cord and pulled it out, letting the charm swing on the end of the cord. 

“I like it when you wear this,” he said. 

“Do you?” 

“Yeah. It’s like you’re thinking of me. Like, it’s proof that I mean something to you.” 

“You do mean something to me,” Dean said matter-of-factly. “I only got one brother, man.” 

“No,” said Sam. He frowned, dropped his hand, the charm fell back into its usual spot against Dean’s chest. “It’s more than that.” He pushed himself up, blinking and ignoring the mini head-rush. Dean was watching him, clear-eyed and intent. 

“Sammy,” he whispered. He cupped the side of Sam’s face with his hand. “C’mere.” 

They kissed lazily, just an edge of intensity. Sam drew back and exhaled, felt the warm air collect and evaporate in the small, intimate space between their lips. He kissed Dean again. This time Dean groaned into the kiss, lifted his hand to cradle the back of Sam’s head, knotting his fingers in his hair. When Sam pulled away again, Dean was flushed and dark-eyed. 

They fucked on the couch. Dean climbed into Sam’s lap and rode him; knees wedged either side of Sam’s hips and hands braced on Sam’s shoulders. Sam stared up into his brother’s face, watched the amulet thud against his chest, saw the smudged glitter of his wet eyelashes against the hollow of his eye sockets when he fluttered his eyes shut, the plush pink swell of his lip as he bit down. He curled his fist around Dean’s fat, swollen cock and squeezed the blood-red head as Dean shuddered and bit his fingers into Sam’s shoulders. 

They came almost simultaneously, Sam then Dean, Dean’s release spattering Sam’s belly. Dean threw his arms around him and pushed Sam’s face into his sweaty chest like he was comforting a distressed child. His body was trembling and Sam could hear and feel the vibrations of his brother’s heart, frantic thudding, where his ear pressed into Dean’s skin. They rested like that for a full minute, Dean’s hands haphazard as they stroked through his hair and soothed over his back. 

“You want to get off me?” Sam said at last, voice muffled against Dean’s chest. 

Dean lifted himself up, let Sam’s cock slide out of him. The end of the condom, thick and slimy with jizz and lube, slapped wetly against Sam’s thigh. Sam got up and strolled to the bathroom to get rid of it. When he got back to the living room, holding a couple of beers, Dean was crouching over his CD collection, flicking through the CDs. He stood up when Sam came in, one CD held aloft. 

“What you got there?” Sam said, passing him a beer. 

Dean took the beer with his free hand and held out the CD to Sam. 

“Bowie? Really?” 

“Definitely,” Dean said with a grin. “Go on, put it on.” 

“Okay.” He slid the copy of _Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders from Mars_ into the CD tray of his old stereo system. Dean fell down onto the couch, lifted his feet onto the coffee table. He was still naked but he looked entirely at home and relaxed. He smiled at Sam and patted the couch cushion beside him. 

Sam sank into the space beside him and let Dean pull him in. Dean nuzzled at the side of his face, and Sam could feel his brother’s smile as the slow crescendo intro to _Five Years_ built. “ _News guy wept and told us, earth was really dying; cried so much his face was wet, I knew he was not lying…_ ” Dean sang softly. 

“Just how did you get into David Bowie?” Sam asked. 

When he and Mom had left, when Dean was sixteen, Dean had liked Metallica and Guns ‘n’ Roses and Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath. His favourite item of clothing had been his vintage Iron Maiden shirt. He’d probably known at least a couple of Bowie songs, but Dean had been a cock-rock guy just like Dad. 

“Just this guy I knew,” said Dean with enough of an air of mystery to make Sam take notice. 

“What guy?”

Dean slanted him a look. “Just a guy.” His mouth twitched like he was enjoying himself. “The first guy I fucked actually.” 

“Well now you _have_ to tell me.” 

Dean licked his lips. He _was_ enjoying himself, Sam thought, fucking tease. 

“It was the year after you and Mom left, so I guess I was seventeen. I met him at this club I’d heard about that had this reputation for being gay friendly and I was. Well, I was trying to figure things out,” he broke off for a second, licked his lips, making a self-deprecating moue with his mouth. “I mean, I already knew I was attracted to guys – some guys. But I was trying to figure out if it was just this crazy blip or if it was something more. If I was, God, I don’t know, suddenly turning gay.”

Sam watched him speak; he could tell that Dean was underplaying it here. He could remember how it felt to figure out you might not be like your friends. He could remember feeling like there was something wrong with him because he wasn’t feeling what his friends described when he looked at girls – not even when he looked at his own girlfriend, Hazel. They’d started dating junior year of high school and it had lasted all through senior year. They’d even made promises to stay together after they’d gone to separate colleges: him to Stanford and her to Washington State. 

Of course, after he’d started at college, after he’d met Bryan and gone along to those GSA mixers, he’d given up any pretence of being straight. He’d finished the relationship with Hazel over the phone. He could still remember it, the day before the Thanksgiving break. Everybody in his dorm had been carrying their bags out to their cars, whooping and laughing and calling out to each other in holiday mode while he tried to break up with his girlfriend on his floor’s payphone. He’d had to repeat everything twice to her, practically shouting the news down the phone line as he tried to be heard over the noise. “ _I think we need to break up! I don’t think it’s working out! I’m really sorry!_ ” He’d told her it was the long distance thing and she’d seemed to buy that excuse. They’d seen each other over the Christmas break and he could remember watching her sit on his bed with tears rolling down her cheeks as he returned her copies of _Gormenghast_ and _Tess of the d’Urbervilles_ and season two of _Buffy_. He’d never told her his real reason for the breakup and he still hoped (pointlessly probably) that she’d never discovered the truth. 

Of course when he’d finally plucked up the courage to tell Mom the truth, she’d been amazing. But she’d still cried, telling him that she hated knowing there would always be people out there who would judge and hate him for something he couldn’t help. He’d been lucky, both Mom and Greg had been supportive and understanding, Dean hadn’t had that. 

“Don’t,” Dean said. 

Sam blinked. “Uh, what?” 

“I can see it in your face. You’re all poor Dean, all on his own, struggling with his sexuality. It wasn’t like that.” 

“Wasn’t it? ‘Cause I know what it was like, Dean. And I had it easy. I mean, Mom was great. So was Greg.” 

_Could you say the same about Dad?_ he silently thought, though he didn’t say it out loud. Dean was looking at him through narrowed eyes like he was hearing the unspoken words, the unsaid slur on his beloved father. Sam cleared his throat, quickly changed the subject: “So, what about this guy, then? What did he do? How did you meet him?” 

“He was a professor at the university. And I told you, I met him at a club. He was older than me. Like, a lot older. Early thirties I think.” 

“Jesus, Dean.” 

“He knew a few things, man. The stuff he taught me.” He gave Sam a significant look, the smirk starting to creep back onto his face, the guarded look falling away. “His collection of sex toys was almost as impressive as yours.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Whatever.” 

“He used to get hung up on the age thing sometimes and then on other occasions.” He snickered, arched an eyebrow. “He had this thing about calling me “little boy” or “baby boy” when we were fucking.” Sam made a face and Dean gave a dirty chuckle. “Oh yeah. It was kinda hot in this weird, freaky way. I don’t know, it wasn’t like I had anything to compare it against. And he taught me some important shit – like safe sex, he was militant about wearing a condom. He hooked up with other guys you see, and I was still hooking up with chicks. I was, like, seventeen, I wasn’t looking for a freaking boyfriend. I just wanted to figure things out.” 

“And did you? Figure things out?” 

“Well, I figured out that I like dick.” 

“And that didn’t freak you out any?” 

“Yeah, course it did. But I got over it. I think in some ways it was alright ‘cause I knew I still liked girls. I wasn’t, like, completely one hundred percent gay. I could deal with the idea of just being this dude who was sometimes attracted to other dudes. I mean, it’s just sex, right? No big.” He broke off again and shrugged. “Anyway, after things finished with Rhys, that was when me and Annette got serious. And I wasn’t going to cheat on her.” 

Sam nodded, watching his brother’s face as he spoke. He’d met Annette when he’d visited Dean and Dad the summer before he’d started high school. She was very beautiful and he hadn’t liked her much, though to be fair to her, he hadn’t exactly been predisposed to like her. He hadn’t wanted to go to Kansas, but Mom and Greg were going on a cruise and Dad apparently wanted to see him. He’d been fourteen and moody and confused and he’d resented every day of the two weeks he’d spent in Lawrence. Dad and Dean were working a lot and when Dean wasn’t working Annette was always there, reducing Sam to the role of sulky, teenage third wheel. It was so weird to think that Dean had already been experimenting with guys even back then, that he’d already been in a relationship with a guy twice his age. Sam really never had known his brother at all. 

“So, how many other guys have you been with? In total?” 

Dean frowned. “I don’t know, man. Not many. Not like you.” 

He ignored that dig, and persevered. “Ten? Twenty? Fifty? How many, Dean?” 

“I don’t know. I guess between ten and twenty.” 

“Really. I thought it’d be more than that.” 

“Sam, I lived in Kansas, with Dad. I wasn’t travelling around Europe, nailing every guy that looked at me twice.” 

“ _Nailing_?” 

“Shut up. God, you’re annoying.” Dean sighed, threw his arm up over his head, over the back of the couch, fingers drumming against the wall. “It was different for me. You want to ask me how many chicks I’ve been with – then, yeah, that’s probably a lot more. But guys. It wasn’t like I could bring a guy back with me, not with Dad there. And he didn’t like me staying out all night. He was cool with me bringing chicks home.” 

Of course. Sam bit his lip, glanced at his brother. Dean’s expression had closed off, that crease between his eyebrows and the tightening around his mouth. He was beginning to recognise that look, the one that crept over Dean’s face whenever the subject of Dad came up. He’d never spoken to Dean much about Dad. Hell, he’d never spoken to Dean much about _anything_. They’d never had that kind of relationship. He’d always been too young or too far away.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. 

Dean turned his head, looked at him. “For God’s sake, Sam.” 

“What? Can’t I say that? I want to, Dean. I mean it. I am. I’m sorry that you had to deal with all that on your own. I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you, that—“ 

“What could you have done?” Dean interrupted tiredly. “You were a kid. You had your own life – on the other side of the freakin’ country! Anyway, it was no big deal. He was my dad. I was just being a good son. You’d do the same thing for Mom.” 

He hesitated, searching his brother’s face. Dean was always so keen to push his own values onto other people, to believe that everyone would act like he would. Would he do the same for Mom? Dad had been sick for such a long time; Dean had spent nearly five years dealing with Dad’s cancer. Every time they’d thought he’d had it beaten, it had come back just a few months later. Dean was twenty when Dad first got sick, not that Sam or Mom had known at the time. But Dean had dropped out of college, broken up with Annette, given up his own future to take care of Dad and earn enough to keep them. Dean had been Dad’s primary, his _only_ carer. He’d done everything for him. He’d put his life on hold for him. 

Sam couldn’t imagine ever doing the same for Mom, and he couldn’t imagine Mom ever expecting it from him. She would never want him to destroy his prospects and his future just to nurse her to an inevitable death. But Dean and Dad were different. Sam used to envy them their relationship, their closeness, Dad’s pride in Dean, and Dean’s devotion to Dad. But he could see things clearer now: there’d been a twisted kind of obsessive, self-sacrificing selfishness in Dean and Dad’s relationship. They’d loved each other intensely and they’d expected everything from each other. Sam could never see Dad fathoming the concept of “if you love someone set them free”. For Dad, love was family and loyalty and devoting your life to other person whether or not it was for your own good, that was why he’d never forgiven Mom for walking out on their marriage, and neither had Dean. 

“I don’t know that I would,” he said. Dean gave him a surprised look, and Sam shrugged. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t want to say anything against the man, but it’s kinda selfish, don’t you think?” 

“What do you mean?” Dean said, a defensive edge creeping into his voice. 

“Nothing, God, nothing, Dean. Just talking crap as usual. Listen, let’s not talk about this. I can think of much better things to do with our mouths.” 

Dean stared back at him for a beat, then he smiled, reached out to caress the side of Sam’s face. “Yeah, we do.” 

 

**

 

Dean fell asleep after the fourth or fifth time, Sam was beginning to lose count. Sam sat on the old wing-backed chair in the corner of his bedroom and watched his brother sleep. The day was fading away, six pm already, the afternoon sun slanting through the blinds and washing over Dean’s naked body in long, shadowy stripes. Sam sighed and rolled his head against the back of the chair, his cheek against the prickly upholstery. He felt heavy and tired. He’d lost track of how long he’d been awake, but he still didn’t want to sleep. If he slept, everything would happen too quickly. This time – this precious time – would fall away too quickly and Dean would be gone, back to his husband and his amazing house in the hills. 

He rose from the chair with an enormous effort, padded to the dresser and rummaged around until he located his camera. He turned it on, hearing it whirl to life with a burrrr-click. He tiptoed around the bed, taking pictures, clicking the shutter quickly and greedily. Dean was really photogenic, not that Sam should be surprised by that, being really photogenic was why Dean got all those modelling gigs after all. But there was something really special about Dean sleeping; he looked young and vulnerable, soft and untouchable. Sam stared at his brother through the lens. _He’s smart, he’s really smart, and he likes hanging out with smart people_. Sam thought about the look on his brother’s face when he’d said those words, the matter-of-fact, self-deprecating twist of his mouth when he’d talked about his job, about his husband, about how Lester’s smart friends saw him. 

The brother Sam had known all those years ago would never have ended up as a male model, as some rich guy’s trophy husband. That Dean had wanted... God, Sam had no idea what Dean had wanted: to be a race car driver? He’d always liked cars and so many of Sam’s memories of him had been connected with cars, from the small matchbox toy cars they’d played with as kids to the big real-life versions Dean had fawned over as a teenager. But was that really Dean, or was that Dad’s version of Dean? Just like the music Dean used to listen to, the same music Dad had loved. Dad had never owned a Bowie record, but this Dean knew every word to every track on _Ziggy Stardust._

Dean wasn’t the same person he’d been in high school, the confident big brother Sam had known and envied. Dean was this completely new person with real fears and self-doubts, and Sam wanted more than everything to crawl inside his head and get to know him, to understand him, to make him feel good about himself. 

“Hey, whatcha doin’?” He snapped his head from the camera. Dean was blinking blearily at him, propping himself up clumsily on one elbow, staring at the camera in Sam’s hand. He arched an eyebrow. “Takin’ pictures while I’m asleep. Kinda creepy, man.” His voice was slurred with sleep, rich and thick and a little hoarse, going straight to Sam’s cock. 

Sam smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. But in my defence, you have no idea how good you look lying there.” 

“You want me to pose for you then you gotta pay for it. I ain’t gettin’ outta this bed for less than a million dollars.” 

“You don’t have to get out of bed, you’re doing fine right there.” 

Dean rolled his eyes, but he was smiling, pink-cheeked and sleep-tousled. Sam snapped a couple more pictures and Dean groaned, stretched out his hand. “Give that here.” 

Sam sank to the edge of the bed and handed over the camera. Dean snapped a couple of pictures and Sam ducked his head, trying to avoid the camera. Dean got to his knees, leaned forward, coaxing, “C’mon, Sammy, turn around. Smile at the camera.” 

“Dean.” He tried to push his brother away, but Dean laughed, said, “Nah, dude. This is your turn. Only fair.” He took another couple of pictures then lowered the camera, flicking through the pictures he’d taken. “You look good.” His tongue was between his teeth and he looked thoughtful. 

“What?” Sam said. 

“Nothing. Just. You ever think about this? You – my little brother.” His eyes were wide, hazy, his eyelashes fringed with sleep. “I think about you. And sometimes, there’s like this – this disconnect. I’m thinking about you and I’m thinking about this little kid. Do you remember that rollercoaster Dad took us on when you were, like, five or six? You sobbed all the way round, begging Dad to let you off. He was so pissed with you afterwards for ruining it.”

“No, I don’t remember that,” Sam said truthfully. 

Dean chuckled. “I can still remember it. We got back on it again, me and Dad, and you stood and watched us, right there in front of the rollercoaster, all red-eyed and furious, this scowl on your face. You were so damn angry with Dad. Standing there, just scowling at us, looking like that freaky kid from _The Omen_.” 

Sam rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Sounds like bullshit to me.” 

“No, man, I swear to God. I’m not making this up. It was so fuckin’ cute. And that was you – this little scowly kid that I remember and then you’re,” he broke off, smoothed his hand over Sam’s shoulder, down his arm, “look at you, Sam. You’re fucking incredible. So gorgeous. My little brother. I look at these dudes on these modelling shoots and they’re all pretty or buff or whatever, but they’re nothing compared to you. You could do that job. Seriously, Sammy, you could.” 

“Shut up.” But he was blushing again, flush rising up his chest and neck, pleased and embarrassed and enjoying it. 

“Aww, am I embarrassing you?” Dean pushed his tongue into his cheek, curled his hand up around the back of Sam’s neck. “C’mere, pose for me.” 

“No, no way,” Sam protested, batting his hand away. But Dean was tenacious, pulling him in and tumbling him down into the mattress. And it wasn’t like Sam was protesting too hard when Dean wanted to pull him down onto the bed and roll on top of him. Dean rolled them until Sam was on his back and Dean looming over him. He framed Sam’s face with his elbows, stared down at him, fingers carding through his hair where it spilled over the pillow. 

“Do you feel bad, Sammy?” 

“What?” 

Dean brushed his thumb over the arch of Sam’s eyebrow. “Do you feel like a sinner? What we’re doing is wrong, you know. It’s really wrong. Don’t you feel that?” 

Sam hesitated; a beat went past, then another. Dean’s expression was ironic, a brittle uncertainty under the wry curl of his lip. 

“Dean, I.” He swallowed, searched for the truth. “I just like being with you.” 

Dean pushed out a breath, rolled off him and onto his back. He flung his arm over his face and said quietly, “Yeah, I like being with you too.”


	6. Chapter 6

It was almost 8pm and the sun was setting in his rear-view as Sam drove north. Dean had said Friday, but Sam wasn’t going to wait until Friday. It had been days since he’d seen his brother and Sam wasn’t waiting any longer. He had to see Dean now and he didn’t care what Dean had to say about it. 

A voice he didn’t recognise came through the intercom. “Yes? Who is it? 

“It’s Sam. Sam Winchester. I’m here to see my brother.” 

There was no answer but the gates started to open at that ponderously slow pace. Dean’s car was parked out front which was a good indication that Dean was around somewhere. Sam got out of his car and walked up to the front door. He hesitated. Was he supposed to knock? Someone knew he was coming, they’d let him in after all. He looked around, the house was quiet and still, no tell-tale noise. He stepped back onto the drive and set off around the side of the house to the pool. The pool was empty, water softly lapping against the tiled edges, the canopy rolled back against the side of the house. 

He tried the French windows, surprised to find them unlocked. He pulled them open, half-expecting a wailing alarm to go off somewhere, the maid or whoever it was that had let him in, to come running with a baseball bat in hand. But there was nothing, no alarm, no booby traps. He stepped into the kitchen. It was clean and tidy, everything neatly put away. He crossed the room and paused at the passageway, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking around. Should he be shouting for somebody? For Dean?

He padded through the passageway and into the big living room. He’d only been in there once, and it was empty now, save for the oil paintings, huge ornate fireplace, guilt mirrors and other antique-style furnishings. There was a door on one side of the room he’d never noticed before, and he crossed the floor to open it. It led to a small den, decorated in a completely different style to the rest of the house. It was – almost normal, comfortable even, like a regular room in a regular house. One corner was dominated by a flat screen TV (the first TV Sam had actually seen in the place), DVD player and DVR. There was a comfortable fat leather couch and armchair, a plain wooden coffee table, and a small fireplace. A couple of bookshelves lined one wall, crammed with paperbacks, car maintenance manuals and DVDs. On the mantelpiece above the fireplace, there were several family photos. 

Dean’s room, he thought. He could just imagine Dean kicking back with a beer, watching sports, his feet on the coffee table. He took a closer look at the photographs, surprised to find a photograph from his own college graduation among them, a duplicate of the one in Mom’s living room. The old family portrait from Christmas 1989 sat in pride of place in the middle of the mantelpiece, probably the very same picture that had sat on top of the TV in the house in Lawrence for so many years. Next to it was a photo of Dad and Dean he’d never seen before: both of them wearing hunting vests and plaid shirts, Dad holding up an enormous fish, Dean with a rod in his hand and a smile on his face, his other hand on Dad’s arm. Dad was bald in the picture, and he looked thin and tired, though he was still smiling, that same big, warm grin Sam remembered. This must’ve been taken towards the end, one last fishing trip, one last day out before Dad had been hospitalised for good. Sam swallowed and replaced the photo, feeling a tug in his chest, a prickle at the back of his throat. There were photos of Dean and Lester too at the other end of the mantelpiece, a couple of wedding pictures, another of them on holiday somewhere, all smiles and easy happiness on some exotic looking beach. He didn’t linger over those. 

He tried the garage next, stepping back out into the sunshine and strolling around the other side of the house. He could hear the sound of the radio and intermittent metallic clanging and banging noises. He pushed open the garage door to see Dean dressed in some torn, grease-stained jeans and t-shirt, leaning over the hood of an old, beat-up car. The radio was playing _If You Want Me to Stay_ by Sly and The Family Stone, and Dean was humming along, intermittent bursts of lyrics from his lips when he remembered the words. Sam watched him straighten and round the car to the tool bench, shaking his hips and whistling along as he fiddled with a socket wrench. The song finished and the station cut to commercials. 

“Dean,” Sam said. 

Dean dropped the wrench onto the bench with a clatter and whirled around. “Jesus Christ, Sam! What the fuck? Almost gave me a heart attack!” 

“Sorry, sorry, man. Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“Yeah, right.” Dean frowned at him, looking annoyed. “What’re you doing here?” 

“Came to see you,” he said simply. He spread his hands, took a couple of steps towards him. “What do you think I’m doing here?” 

Dean let out a long breath and looked around him. “Fuck, Sam. You can’t do this.” 

“Why not?” 

“You know why not. ‘Cause this is my home and Lester is—“ 

“Is he here?” Sam interrupted. 

“Yes, he’s here. He’s in his office, working.” 

“So he’s probably not going to emerge for ages, right?” 

Dean picked up another tool and turned his back on Sam, stalking back towards the open hood. “That’s not the point.” 

“Dean.” Sam followed him, coming around the side of the car so he could stare down into the engine. As usual, it was like staring at a piece of abstract art. Dean bent over and started screwing something to something else. 

“I told you Friday,” he said. “I told you, I’d see you after that spa shoot.” 

“Yeah, and Friday’s not for three days. I couldn’t wait another three days, it’s been ages.” Dean didn’t acknowledge him, just kept doing whatever he was doing. “Dean,” he repeated. 

Dean finished and straightened up. He turned to face Sam. “What? You should leave.”

Sam’s heart sank. He swallowed hard, tried to meet his brother’s eyes, but Dean was putting his back to him again, going back to the workbench to pick up something else. He was moving around Sam like he was in a play, like he was following some dramatic blocking. 

“Dean,” he said again. This time more urgently. 

Dean hesitated, and threw the spanner in his hand down onto the worktable. He hunched over, curled his fingers around the edge of the bench like he was using it to hold himself up. The radio had started playing _Without You_ by Air Supply, the dramatic words and music belting into the air between them like the song was mocking them. 

Dean pushed himself up. “Christ, that’s all we need,” he muttered contemptuously. He snapped off the radio, turned around. “Sam, I think – this is getting out of hand.” 

“I think it’s already out of hand,” Sam said. 

Dean’s mouth twisted into a grim smile. “Right. Jesus.” He passed his hand over his face, smearing grease on his cheek. 

“You got some—“ Sam started to say, gesturing to his own cheek. 

“What?” 

Sam advanced on him; his heart was thumping in his chest, his pulse starting to trip-hammer as he got closer. “There,” he breathed. He was close enough now to reach out and drag his finger through the smudge of grease on Dean’s cheekbone. 

“It’ll wash off,” said Dean, and then he was fisting Sam’s tie in his hand and yanking him into a kiss. 

Sam fell into him, their knees bumping together, Dean’s back hitting the workbench hard enough for the neat line of tools to rattle and clank. Dean winced but he didn’t stop, his mouth all over Sam’s face, his fingers grasping in his shirt and tie and hair. 

“Goddamn, Sam, Jesus...” Dean panted. He shoved his hand between their bodies, fingers brushing over Sam’s fly. 

“I thought you said – not here – you said—“ 

“Shut up!” Dean growled. Giving up on opening Sam’s neat button fly, he snarled in irritation and forced his hand past Sam’s waistband, wrist catching on Sam’s belt and fingers fluttering teasingly over the rock-hard line of Sam’s dick. 

“Too long, way too fuckin’ long...” Sam was murmuring as he devoured Dean’s mouth, as he fumbled with his own stupid belt, trying to loosen his waistband around Dean’s wrist enough for Dean to pump his cock. “I can’t stand it, Dean, gotta be with you, gotta—“ 

“Jesus, Sammy, shut up!” Dean hissed and squeezed his cock to make his point. 

They rutted against each other, kissing frantically between awkward jacks of Sam’s cock. Sam spilled into Dean’s fingers with a curse and Dean drew away, wiping his grease and come stained hand off on an oil-stained rag. 

“You, what about you,” Sam panted, and he was sinking to his knees, dragging down Dean’s zipper. He sucked Dean off on the floor of the garage, knees aching from the cold concrete. He drank down his brother’s come, watching his brother’s thighs tremble. 

He got slowly to his feet, wiping his mouth off with the back of his hand. Dean’s head was bowed, shaky fingers fiddling with the zipper of his jeans as he put himself back together. Sam fixed his own fly and belt, cursing when he noticed the stains on his pants. He untucked his shirt, unknotted his tie and undid the top couple of buttons on his shirt, attempting the casual, scruffy look. He looked at his brother; Dean looked surprisingly put together, considering. Aside from his flushed cheeks, razor burn and that post-sex gleam in his eyes, he looked like he could’ve been innocently working on the car all this time. 

Sam watched him cross the room to bend down in front of a mini-fridge. He straightened up and tossed a bottle of water over the roof of the car. Sam caught it awkwardly. “Rinse your mouth out,” he said.

Sam chuffed out a laugh but he complied, twisting the cap off and taking a long gulp. He gestured at the partly covered car in front of him. “So, what’s this? New project?” 

“This was supposed to be a surprise for you. But you’ve kinda fucked that up now.” 

Sam blinked at him. “Uh, what?” 

“You remember I told you I was gonna get you a decent ride. Something you won’t be embarrassed to be seen with. Unlike that current heap of plastic junk you call a car.” 

“You bought me a car?” Sam said, mouth dropping open in shock. 

“Yeah, and before you say it, _I_ bought it with _my_ money,” Dean said. “I got it from this dude I know in San Diego. This, my brother, is a classic Chevy Camaro, 71 SS350 model. Or it will be when I fix it up.” He gave the roof a couple of satisfied pats. “Isn’t she awesome?” 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah, it – she looks great, Dean. So, what kinda mileage does it get?” Dean rolled his eyes and Sam laughed. “Just kidding. No, it’s. I mean, it’s awesome.” He surveyed the car. In truth, it didn’t look all that awesome. It looked like another of those huge muscle cars, just like his brother’s pride and joy, except it wasn’t in as nearly good condition. The leather upholstery inside was ripped to shit and the paintjob was scuffed and rusty. But Dean had gotten it for him. And Dean was working on restoring it and putting it back together. For him. No one had ever done anything like that before for him. He swallowed, his throat felt tight, the backs of his eyes hot. 

“Oh God,” groaned Dean, “you’re gonna blubber.” 

“Fuck off.” 

Dean laughed and placed one hand on his back to steer him around. “We should go inside. Chase up, Lester. Got to be time for dinner.” 

Oh, Lester. He’d forgotten about him. Sam bit his tongue and nodded, shielding his expression as Dean led him out the garage and back inside the house. 

 

**

 

“He showed you the car, didn’t he?” said Lester. 

They were sitting at the kitchen table, or at least, Sam and Lester were. Dean was putting some finishing touches to an enormous chicken salad which he carried to the table and deposited unceremoniously in front of them. 

“He did,” Sam said. “It’s amazing.” 

“It was supposed to be a secret,” Lester said. His eyes followed Dean as he crossed back to the oven to take out the pan of garlic bread. “You told me it was a secret,” Lester called out to him. “You told me I couldn’t say anything.” 

“It was a secret,” Dean answered dismissively. He dumped the garlic bread onto a bread board and started slicing it up, tossing each steaming piece into a bowl. He carried the bowl over to the table and slid onto the seat opposite. “But he ruined it.” 

Sam protested, “No I didn’t.” 

“You walked in on me working on it.” Dean said. “Help yourselves, by the way. Food won’t eat itself.” 

“You could’ve told me anything. I had no idea you were working on that for me.” 

“Well, it’s ruined now,” said Dean, spooning salad onto his plate. Sam watched Lester snatch up several pieces of garlic bread. 

“It’s not ruined. I still want it.” 

“Good,” Dean said. “’Cause it’s yours whether you like it or not.” 

Sam laughed and spooned some of the salad (it seemed to consist of anything and everything: hard-boiled eggs, lettuce, tomatoes, anchovies, walnuts, asparagus, avocados, olives, chicken of course, with an abundance of delicious lemony flavoured dressing) onto his plate. “What do you call this?” he asked, indicating the food. 

“Big salad,” said Dean. 

“Seriously?” 

“Yup.” 

“It’s amazing,” Lester put in. “Help yourself before I eat all of it. And have some garlic bread, that’s home made too. He’s such a great cook.” 

“Shut up,” Dean said, with an eye-roll, but he looked pleased. “And, dude, do what he says, eat the garlic bread. It’s just taunting me. I’m not allowed it, got three days to lose two pounds. Fucking agent.” 

Dean wasn’t allowed alcohol either, so Sam shared the bottle of wine with Lester, who was as loquacious as ever, treating Sam to a long-winded Cambridge story involving Mr Van der Horst. Dean sat back in his chair and watched his husband talk, idly sipping at his water. Sam tried to catch his eye a couple of times, but Dean was ignoring him, all his attention on Lester. 

“Did Mom tell you about the party?” he said into a break in the conversation, Lester shutting up long enough to eat the remaining garlic bread. 

Dean looked at him. “Their engagement party? Yeah, she told me. Told me they’d booked some fancy gardens for it. Wanted to make sure we were available.” 

“He thinks it’s ridiculous,” Lester said, speaking to Sam in a confiding sort of a tone. “We didn’t have an engagement party.” 

“That’s ‘cause we got married two months after you popped the question.” 

“Well I couldn’t wait. Couldn’t risk the chance you’d change your mind. I had to get that ring on your finger as soon as I could.” 

“Yeah, yeah. Whatever, you’re just impatient.” 

Lester shrugged, “Guilty as charged.” He turned back to Sam, giving him that confiding, conspiratorial look again. “Look at him.” 

“Huh?” Sam blinked. 

“He’s desperate to go out there. That’s what this tetchiness is about. Go on. Indulge your filthy habit, my love.” He leaned over the table to brush one long finger over Dean’s knuckles. 

Dean rolled his eyes at his husband. “You’re too kind,” he said dryly. He pulled his hand back and got up, sliding his cigarettes and lighter out of his jeans pocket. “Won’t be long,” he said. He crossed the room and opened the French windows to step outside. 

Sam watched him go. “He’s smoking a lot these days.” 

“What? Um, yes, I suppose so. I think it’s the modelling thing. An appetite suppression thing too, I would imagine.” 

“That doesn’t concern you?” Sam frowned. 

“Of course it concerns me,” said Lester. “But he won’t listen to me. I want him to do something else with his life. I’ve been telling him that for months. He just thinks I want to change him.” He gave Sam a wry look. “Sometimes I think he’s being deliberately obtuse.” 

Sam swallowed, the back of his throat felt dry. “Maybe, I mean – if Dean feels that you’re trying to change him—“ 

“I don’t want to change him. I just want him to be happy. That job is not making him happy. Surely, you agree?” 

Sam nodded, not meeting the other man’s eyes. “Uh, yeah, yeah. I guess.” 

He could feel Lester’s eyes on him, that intelligent, level gaze piercing into him. He felt a prickle of sweat under his armpits, the back of his neck burning, he daren’t look up, daren’t meet Lester’s eyes. He felt certain that the guy would be able to see it there in his eyes: the truth, the guilt. 

“He wants to earn his own money and I agree with him. I don’t want him dependant on me. He has this crazy idea that everybody sees him as this little, lost kitten that I rescued.” Lester paused, smiled wryly. “He feels he has to prove something to everybody – to me, to himself. And with the modelling, well, the money’s good and he’s been very successful, but he despises himself for it. He has these crazy ideas about what kind of job a man should be doing, and modelling isn’t it.” He paused again, shook his head ruefully. “Sometimes I think he despises himself for marrying me.” 

Sam licked his lips. Dad, he thought, that’s Dad’s influence, still lingering, still fucking up Dean’s head. But was he any better? He thought suddenly of his own suggestion to Dean that he should go back to college, do something that he’d feel good about, something he would be good at. But had he really been thinking of Dean when he’d suggested that? He didn’t want Dean to be a male model – that was true enough. He felt embarrassed when he thought about it, when he thought of Dean letting all those assholes objectify him that way, see him as just a pretty face or a hot body. Dean was so much more than that.

He could feel Lester’s eyes on him, watching him as he sipped his wine. 

He swallowed again. “He doesn’t – I’m sure he doesn’t feel like that. About you.” 

Lester nodded, reached to refill his wine glass. He looked thoughtful, a little sad. _He loves him_ He really, really loves him. He felt suddenly sick to his stomach, a knot of guilt and nausea tight in his belly. 

They both started when they heard the French windows open, Dean stepping back inside. Dean hesitated, his eyes flicked between the two of them. He raised his eyebrows. “So, what were you saying about me?” 

Dean walked Sam out to his car when it was time for him to leave, smoking a cigarette while Lester did the clean-up. He rested a hand on top of the Prius and shook his head. “I’ll be so damn glad to see the back of this.” 

“Shut up, it’s not that bad.” 

“It is, Sammy. It really is. A brother of mine.” He exhaled a stream of smoke into the dark sky, watching Sam from the corner of his eye, a smile playing over his lips. 

“Is Friday – are we still on for Friday?” he asked. 

Dean looked away, flicked the ash from his cigarette. “Yeah, we can do that.” 

Sam felt his mouth curl up at the corners. He pushed out a breathy laugh. He felt ridiculously relieved. 

“Sam, you know you can’t just show up here randomly like that. You must see that, right?” Dean gave him a frank look, his expression serious. 

He nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, I guess.” 

Dean nodded again. He flicked away his cigarette butt, ground it out with his heel, gravel scraping under his boot. “You should get going.” 

“Okay,” Sam said. He rounded the car to the drivers side, slid his keys out of his pocket. He hesitated, staring over the roof at his brother. “Friday, then?” 

“Friday,” Dean repeated. “I’ll call you.” 

Sam watched him turn around and walk back towards the house, then he unlocked the car and got inside. 

 

**

 

On Friday night Sam waited at the table for over two hours, enduring increasingly sympathetic looks from the wait staff on duty. He drank a bottle of wine and two whiskeys on the rocks and dialled Dean’s phone six times. By nine thirty he gave up. There was a line waiting to be seated and some of the sympathetic looks were getting downright hostile. He got the check, tipped grandly out of guilt for hogging a table for so long, and left the restaurant feeling a little buzzed and a lot pissed. 

He called Craig on his way home, dialling his number as he drove. 

“Whatssup, dude?” Craig answered. “Haven’t heard from you in freakin’ ages.” 

“You doing anything tonight?” Sam cut in. 

There was a hesitation, and when Craig came on again, he sounded anticipatory. “Could be.” 

“Cancel it. Come round my place. Bring your best weed.” 

Another hesitation before Craig finally answered, “Give me a couple of hours. Got some errands to run.” 

“Take as long as you want, I’m not doing anything,” Sam responded and thumbed off the phone. 

He had a new slideshow on his laptop. He’d put all the photos he’d taken of Dean onto his hard drive, set them up into a slideshow. He slumped on the couch, bottle of whiskey cradled in the crook of his arm and stared at his brother’s sleeping face, his brother’s sleeping body, the freckles on his shoulders, the shine of sweat in the crooks of his elbows and knees, the pale, vulnerable nape of his neck, the dip and curve of his spine and the golden hairs on his toned, muscled thighs. His cock was heavy and thick in his pants, though he felt too drunk and listless to do anything about it. 

His Blackberry vibrated and he forced himself out of his stupor, struggled forward to pick it up. DEAN the display read. He swallowed thickly, stared at the pictures on his screen and pressed the Accept Call button. 

“Where were you?” 

“I’m sorry, but he came to the shoot. He was there waiting for me.” 

“Lester,” he said flatly. 

“Yeah,” said Dean. He sounded distracted. “Listen, I can’t talk for long, just stepped out for a cigarette. We’re having dinner.” 

So they were at a restaurant, having a romantic dinner together. How nice. How fucking nice. 

“I waited for you for over an hour. You could’ve sent a fucking text, Dean.” 

“No, I couldn’t. My phone was dead.” 

“Seems okay now.” 

“’Cause I charged it.” 

“Where?” 

Dean sighed and Sam could hear the exasperation in his voice. “At the hotel. Jesus, Sam, I’m sorry, okay? He – just, he was here. When I came off the shoot, he was there. Waiting for me. What was I supposed to do? If I’d told him I was meeting you, he would’ve just tagged along. You know he would.” 

“And that wouldn’t do, right, Dean? That would’ve just been awkward.” 

Dean blew out a breath. “Whatever. Just – enjoy your fucking hissy-fit, Sam. You know what this is. You know how this works. I’m married. You _know_ that.” 

He gritted his teeth. On his screen, Dean’s face was in close up, his soft, parted mouth, the red imprints of the pillow case against his cheek. Sam’s stomach recoiled, a wrench of want and lust so hard he felt like screaming out loud, like putting his fist through something. He wanted Dean here; he wanted to put his hands around him and squeeze him hard enough to leave bruises. 

A knock on the door startled him and he whipped his head up, his brain stumbling in a confused whirl. Craig. He’d invited Craig over. 

“I got to go,” he said. “I got company.” 

“Company?” echoed Dean. 

“Yeah. It’s this guy I like to fuck. He’s come round so we can fuck and get high. Should be good.” 

Dean gave a hollow laugh and Sam felt his stomach flip over again. “Aw, whatever. Have fun, Sam.” 

The line went dead. The knock came again. Sam ignored it, stared down at his phone, at Dean’s name and number. He ground his teeth together and tossed the phone onto the coffee table then he got up and made his stumbling way to the door. 

Craig was leaning against one side of the doorjamb – no, not leaning, posing, hip cocked. “What took you so long?” 

“I was jackin’ off,” Sam slurred. He held the door open just wide enough for Craig to slide in around him, their bodies brushing together. Craig gave him a look, one eyebrow raised. 

“You smell like an Irish bar,” he said. 

Sam stumbled past him to the couch. He fell down into it, tilted his head back and blinked up at him. “Did you bring pot?” 

“I did.” Craig circled the coffee table and perched on the couch beside him, their thighs brushing. He reached into his messenger bag and pulled out a baggie of weed. “Shall I roll?” 

Thirty minutes later and they were onto their second joint. He was slumped down into one side of the couch and Craig was on the other. He took a drag on the joint and exhaled, held it out to Craig. Sam stared at him through his hazy, fuzzy eyes. 

“That guy’s hot.” Craig waved the joint at Sam’s laptop which was still playing the Dean slideshow on an endless loop. “Who is he? Ex-boyfriend?” 

“My brother,” Sam said blankly. He was too stoned and too uncaring to make something up. 

Craig rolled his head towards him and blinked. “Your brother. The male model guy?” 

“Yeah, that’s right. We’re sleeping together. I’m in love with him.” 

“Bullshit.” 

“It’s true. I’m in love with him,” he repeated, “and when I’m with him, when we’re together...” He broke off for a second, licked his lips. He could feel Craig’s eyes on him, watching him intently. 

“What?” Craig prompted. 

Sam rolled his head Craig’s way. He smiled softly. “It’s better than any drug. Better than that,” he pointed at the joint in Craig’s hand, “better than this,” he shook the bottle of whiskey in his hand, hearing the liquid slosh around. “It’s better than anything. But he’s married.” 

“And he’s your brother,” Craig added. 

Sam snorted. “Yeah.” 

Craig nodded and bent over to drop the smoking butt into the ashtray. “And that’s him, your brother?” He pointed to the laptop. 

“Yeah, that’s Dean.” 

He nodded a couple more times like he was thinking it over then pursed his lips. “Fuck, if my brother looked like that, I’d probably want to fuck him too.” 

Sam snorted again, the laughter fizzing out of him like a shaken up bottle of coke. Craig turned his head and looked at him for a couple of beats. “Shall we fuck now?” 

 

**

 

“You forgot, didn’t you?” Mom sounded disappointed when he finally answered the phone. 

He blinked, pushed his hand through his hair. It felt greasy and wiry and gross under his fingertips. He made a face, squinted at the stupid, bright sunlight blazing through his window. He really should’ve closed the curtains last night. Hell, he should’ve done a lot of things last night. 

“Sam?” Mom prompted. 

“Uh, yeah. Yeah. Um, hi, Mom?” 

She sighed mom-fully. There was no other way of putting it, that _I’m disappointed in you, Sam_ sigh that he could remember from missing curfew and being late with homework. Not that he’d done any of those things very often. She should be grateful really. 

“Sam, family lunch. At Dean and Lester’s place.” 

A cosy family dinner at Dean and Lester’s place? Well that sounded awesome. That totally sounded like something he wanted to do right now. He gritted his teeth. 

“Sam? Are you there, honey?” The tone in her voice was slipping from exasperated to concerned. He felt that familiar bubble of guilt pop in his belly. 

“Um, yeah, yeah, I’m here. That was today? That dinner thing?” 

“Lunch. And yes. It’s today. It’s Sunday.” 

Sunday already? What the fuck had happened to Saturday? He rolled over in bed, noticing for the first time since he’d woken up that he wasn’t alone. Craig was still there, lying in his bed beside him, snoring with his mouth gaping open. Sam stared at him, wet his lips. His head felt like cement and his stomach was doing that nauseous swoop-swoop thing. The last thing he felt like was a family lunch at Dean and Lester’s place. 

“Shall I tell them you can’t make it?” said Mom. She sounded concerned still. “You are okay, aren’t you, Sam? You’ve been acting very strangely recently.” 

He pressed his lips together, forcing down the bubble of bitter mirth. He felt like laughing, absurd and hysterical laughter. _That’s because I’m in love with my brother. I’m in love with Dean but he doesn’t want me like I want him._

“Mom, I’m fine. Just – a heavy night, you know.” 

“Oh, right.” Now the concern was switching to disapproval. 

“Yeah, but I’ll make it. I might be a little late but I’ll be there.” 

He was definitely going to be there, if only to see Dean. It was a mark of just how pathetic, just how far gone he was, that seeing Dean all happy and play-house with his husband was still better than not seeing Dean at all. Then again, maybe he’d get a chance to talk to him, get him to explain – no, to _apologise_ for standing him up on Friday. 

He hung up and tossed his phone to the nightstand with a sigh. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, feet on the floor, elbows resting on his thighs. He pushed his hands through his hair again and made a face. He needed a shower. 

“Hey.” He reached behind him to prod Craig in the side. “Hey, you got to get up. You got to leave.” 

Craig groaned and tried half-heartedly to push Sam’s hand away. 

“No, hey, I’m serious. You got to go, man. I’m going out.” 

Craig blinked his eyes open and stared balefully at him. “What? I thought you said you didn’t have plans.” 

“Yeah, well, there’s been a change of plan. I’ve got this family thing.” 

“With your _brother_?” 

Sam froze and remembered suddenly that he had done that – he had been stupid enough to spill it all to Craig – to tell him about Dean. “With my whole family.” He got up, strode towards the bathroom. “I’m taking a shower.” 

He drove north with the sun in his eyes and a wicked headache nagging at the back of his skull despite the prescription painkillers he’d crunched before leaving home. He parked up beside Greg’s Lotus, relieved to note that he was only thirty minutes late. Considering the state he’d been in when Mom had called, that was pretty good going. He got out the car, slammed the door behind him and winced. He adjusted his shades, set his shoulders into a stiff, defensive line and circled the house to the back. 

Dean was the first one to spot him, looking up from his food and shading his eyes as he watched Sam draw near. Sam stared back at his brother, grateful for the sunglasses hiding his expression. But Dean might as well have been wearing sunglasses too for all he was giving away, his expression completely unreadable. 

“Ah! You’re here!” Lester exclaimed as Sam stepped closer. He got up from his seat and pulled out the chair beside him, the metal feet screeching on the terracotta tiles. “Sit down, sit down, tuck in.” 

Mom got up from her chair and leaned over to kiss him, her hand lingering on his arm and her eyes scanning quickly over his face. She squeezed his wrist before she dropped back into her seat. “Glad you could make it, honey,” she said. 

“I nearly didn’t,” he admitted. “I completely forgot.” 

“Had better things to do,” Dean interrupted. His voice was flat, no malice, barely any expression there at all. “Right, bro?” 

“Yeah, you could say,” he said. He met Dean’s gaze steadily for a couple of beats. 

“You gonna take those shades off. Kinda rude to keep them on when you’re eating,” Dean said. 

Sam said nothing, but the corners of his mouth pulled up into a wry grimace. “Right, course. Sorry.” He slid the sunglasses up into his hair, hoping that his eyes didn’t look too bloodshot or haggard. 

“Ohho, so it was a big night last night I see,” said Lester with a laugh. 

Evidently, he did look as bad as he felt. 

“Well, you’re only young once,” said Greg with a conciliatory tone. 

“Hair of the dog, Sam?” asked Lester, leaning over the table with the wine bottle. 

“Why not?” said Sam, tilting his glass back at him. 

Dean was quiet and distracted throughout the meal, getting up to fetch things from the kitchen, to clear plates and bring out more wine and food. He’d cooked everything himself. All my favourites, Lester boasted when the traditional British summer puddings came out, leaning over the table to lace his fingers with Dean’s and give him one of those besotted looks. Sam put his sunglasses back on and took refuge in his wine glass, watching his brother from behind the dark glasses. 

Dean looked uncomfortable; nothing like the Dean who’d spent the weekend with Sam only a few weeks ago. When they were together Dean had laughed and joked and grinned that dazzling, heartbreaking grin. Dean had talked to him, he’d told him stuff, admitted stuff that Sam knew he’d never told anyone else – even Dad. When Dean was with just him he was relaxed and happy. Dean wasn’t any of those things right now. 

Dean got up after dessert had finished, disappearing around the side of the house for a cigarette. Sam gave him a minute before following. 

Dean was leaning against the side of the house, one leg bent behind him, his heel against the wall. 

“What took you so long?” he said as Sam approached. 

“We need to talk,” said Sam. 

“Do we?” Dean lifted the cigarette to his lips, inhaled, held the smoke in before exhaling it up into the air. 

“Yes, yes we do,” said Sam, more forcefully. “What’s going on, Dean? Is it over? Is it—“ 

“Do you want it to be over?” interrupted Dean. 

“No, God, no! Of course I don’t. Do _you_ want it to be over?” 

“It should never have started, Sam.” For the first time that afternoon Dean let the expressionless mask fall away. He looked defeated, tension in the way he was holding himself, in the way he sucked on his cigarette like it was a lifeline. 

Sam stared back at him. His fingers itched to touch him. He wanted to hurt him – to scratch and bruise him – to remake his face into something that didn’t affect him so damn much, that didn’t have so much power over him. He wanted to look at him and not feel – not feel _this_ – this horrible, nagging, never-ending want. But at the same time, he wanted to pull him in, pull him close and comfort him, tell him it would be okay and that he wasn’t allowed to look like that, so defeated and helpless and bitter. 

“You don’t mean that,” he said, hearing his voice shake and hating himself for it. 

Dean pushed out a breath, a bitter half-laugh. “Oh I do. I really do. I shouldn’t. Look – I know, I know it’s my fault. And I’m sorry, I’m so sorry for that. But I think this is it. I think we should—“ 

“Should what?” Sam burst out. “You can’t just say that! Christ, Dean, you – you’re all I think about! I can’t think straight anymore. The other weekend when we were together. You – you can’t just forget about it, pretend like it didn’t happen. You can’t do that to me, Dean!” He bowed his head, heaved out a strangled breath. He stared down at his shoes, at the pebbles and gravel beneath his feet. 

“Sam, Sammy.” He flinched when he felt Dean’s hand on his shoulder and reached for him, clutched and grabbed at him, pushing, burying his face in Dean’s shirt. “Sammy, please. C’mon, get hold of yourself.” Dean’s hands stroked through Sam’s hair, gentle and tender. He must’ve thrown away his cigarette, Sam thought fuzzily, because he was touching him so carefully, so tenderly, like he really cared. “Sam, c’mon.” 

Sam sucked in a breath and raised his head. His sunglasses were skewed, pressing uncomfortably into his nose. He pulled them off, dropped them to the ground. He swiped the heel of his hand across his eyes, feeling the hot tears scald his skin. He brought his hands up to clutch at Dean’s shoulders. He sank his fingers into the firm muscle of Dean’s shoulders and gripped tight. 

“Are you okay?” Dean said tentatively. 

He sucked in a breath, let out a harsh, derisive laugh. “No. God, no. So not okay.” 

“Look, I. I’ve got this lunch with my agent on Saturday. Maybe after that we could—“ 

“That’s a week away, Dean. I need to see you before then!” 

“No. I can’t. That’s the best I can do.” 

“Okay, okay.” He swallowed, giving in. What else was he going to do? He was so pathetic, he’d take anything. He’d been brought to this. Dean had brought him to this. He watched his brother look away again, a fierce burst of resentment quickening in his gut. Dean blinked, his tongue came out to slick across his bottom lip. Sam followed it, feeling the resentment twist into a heat that pooled and fizzled in his belly. His fingers flexed on Dean’s shoulders and he felt Dean flinch underneath him, make to pull away. “Saturday then,” he said quickly, trying to pull Dean back, but Dean wrenched himself away, out of Sam’s grip. 

“Fine,” Dean said. He ducked down, picked up Sam’s shades. “Here, take these back.” 

Dean was eying him warily, but his lips were a little parted, his cheeks flushed, and there was a glimmer of sweat on his top lip. Sam felt the heat in his gut coil and spring free and he pushed forward, snatching at Dean’s shirt and fisting the fabric between his fingers. Dean’s eyes widened almost comically, and Sam forced him backwards, slammed him up against the wall and swooped in to devour his mouth. He could feel Dean trying to fight it before he gave up; relaxing and going limp and letting Sam take what he needed. 

Sam peeled his mouth off Dean’s and panted for breath. His lips were tender, his heart throbbing, his cock hard as stone. He cupped the side of Dean’s face, brushed his thumb lovingly over his brother’s mouth. Dean’s expression was hard, his gaze baleful. He threw Sam off, roughly, made to stalk away, then stopped, held out the shades still in his hands. “Put those on. You’ll need them,” he said, his tone cold and dismissive. 

Chastened, his heart still hammering and stomach twisted into painful knots, Sam took the sunglasses from his brother’s hand. Dean turned around without another word and stalked off in the opposite direction. Sam put on his shades, straightened his crumpled shirt and walked slowly back to rejoin his family.


	7. Chapter 7

When things fall apart, they fall apart fast. 

Sam couldn’t remember where he’d read or heard that, but the phrase kept beating against his brain as he waited for his brother, pacing his small living room, glaring at the silent phone in his hand. He gave him an hour and then another, but Dean didn’t turn up. 

There was part of him that was expecting it, and another part, a more pathetic, more hopeful, more die-hard part of him that clung to the belief that Dean wouldn’t do this to him again. Dean wouldn’t stand him up again. But Dean hadn’t come. No message, no text, no call, and no Dean. 

Well if Dean wasn’t going to come to him… 

He snatched up his phone and keys and left his apartment. His stomach was churning and his brain was churning along with it, playing through all the different scenarios. He’d surprise them. He’d walk in on them and confront Dean. He’d do it in front of Lester. He’d let Lester see just exactly what kind of guy he’d married. He’d tell Lester everything. Dean wouldn’t have a choice, and he wouldn’t be able to deny anything. Because seriously, what kind of person would make this up? An affair with your own brother? Lester would divorce him. He’d have no other choice. 

The anger burned away, as rancid and bitter as the after-effects of too many whiskey sours. He wanted Dean to see – to see what he’d brought him to – that he’d brought him to this, this petty vengeance. Dean had destroyed his peace forever, his equanimity, any kind of self-belief he’d ever had. It had all gone. Thanks to Dean. He was never going to be the same person again. Hell, maybe he’d never been that person to begin with. He’d worn the mask of Sam Winchester all this time, but what he was was a fraud and a sinner. He was not a good person, he never had been, but it was Dean who’d brought it to the surface. 

He parked the car in a spray of gravel, the brakes screeching. He jumped out, yelled his brother’s name. He slammed the car door, not bothering to lock it, yelled for Dean again. 

“Sam?” 

He whirled around. Lester was approaching from the far side of the driveway, from a part of the grounds he’d never seen before. 

“Where’s Dean?” he demanded, striding towards him. 

“He’s not here,” said Lester. He was looking over him, that penetrating gaze boring into him, through him, reading him. 

“Oh.” Sam hesitated, his fingers curled and uncurled from around his car keys. “Where is he?” 

“In the city, or so I believe. He had a lunch.” He was carrying a picnic basket in one hand, one of those old-fashioned wicker kinds with a plaid cloth covering it. He was dressed in a linen suit, a faded cotton hat on his head. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a play, like a character from an Evelyn Waugh novel. 

“Lunch?” 

“Yes. That’s right. Lunch with his agent.” 

So Dean had told Lester the same lie. Or perhaps it wasn’t a lie? Perhaps Dean was telling the truth. Perhaps the lunch had overrun. Sam hadn’t called him. Maybe he should’ve called him? But Dean was still over two hours late. He still hadn’t bothered to call or leave a message. He didn’t deserve the benefit of the doubt. 

“Oh,” Sam said. He brought his hand up to his mouth, swiped it over his lips. He looked about him: the house, the driveway, the grounds, the trees, the grass. Dean’s car was missing. 

“You seem agitated, Sam. Is everything okay?” 

Sam felt like laughing. He snapped his head around again, blinked at Lester, taking all of him in: his brother-in-law, this man who was Dean’s husband, who shared Dean’s bed, who took pleasure in Dean’s body. Why was this man with Dean? Why had Dean married him? This clever, strange guy with his affected, purring voice and stupid linen suit. He had nothing in common with Dean. 

“I’m fine,” he snapped. “I just – I need to see Dean. I have to talk to him about something.” 

“I see,” said Lester lightly. “Well, he’s not here and I’m not sure when he’ll be back. You can wait for him, if you like. In fact,” he raised the picnic basket and smiled charmingly, “I’m about to take a little boat trip. You should join me.” 

“No, I should be going, if Dean’s not here—“ 

“Nonsense! You _must_ join me. In fact, I insist. We have much to talk about, you and I. Come along.” He turned around, started picking his way through the grass. He paused and turned around again, waving Sam on. “Come on, Sam.” 

He followed Lester down a path he hadn’t seen before, a small dirt path that led to the lake and the boathouse around the back of the house. The spot Dean had taken him to on his first visit here. A rowing boat was moored alongside the bank, not far from the willow tree where Dean had stood and torn off the leaves, telling Sam all about his new job, his new husband, his new life. Sam swallowed and followed Lester down the bank, his sneakers sinking into the mud and grit. Lester was standing in the centre of the boat, placing the picnic basket on one of the bench seats and watching Sam expectantly. 

“This is a stroke of luck, having you come along. A Stanford oarsman to do all the work so I won’t have to. This way I can be terribly lazy. Unmoor her, will you, Sam?” 

He unwound the mooring rope from around the wooden pole jutting out the mini dock. Clutching onto the damp, leathery end he stepped into the boat. It rocked a little as he took his seat and took up the oars. Lester had already made himself comfortable in the prow, watching Sam from under the brim of his hat. Sam pushed them off the bank with one of the oars and let them float out into the water. Lester was silent as Sam took up the oars and rowed steadily, following the current, his body falling into an easy, well-remembered rhythm. If he closed his eyes he could almost hear the cries of his old cox and the dip and splash of his fellow oarsmen.

“Mmm, this is nice,” Lester murmured. He had one hand thrown over the side of the boat, letting it drag through the water. “I could watch you do that for a very long time.” He was eyeing Sam with a complete lack of self-consciousness, his eyes drifting over Sam’s body in obvious admiration, a salacious curl to his lips. 

_He thinks you’re hot_ , Dean had said, and Sam could feel the flush rise at the back of his neck and cheeks. He was used to being checked-out, but this felt different, this blatant scrutiny and appreciation. 

“He’s having an affair, isn’t he?” 

The question shocked Sam into dropping one oar. He scrambled around to grab it back, gulped and concentrated on righting his grip, forcing himself back into the easy rhythm. 

“From your reaction, I can see I’m right.” 

Gulping again, Sam raised his head, met Lester’s eyes for a fraction of a second. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Lester tutted. “Don’t play stupid, Sam. It insults both of us.” 

His stomach lurched. He thought suddenly of that scene in _The Talented Mr Ripley_ when Ripley throws Dickie Greenleaf off the boat into the sea, of the scene in _Godfather II_ when Freddie Corleone ends up as fish-food. It was so easy to orchestrate an accident in a boat. They were entirely alone, no one was around, no one knew he was here. And who really knew anything about Lester? What kind of man he was, what he was capable of. He had to be pretty ruthless to have made so much money, no one got that rich without being seriously cold-blooded. Sam knew that, he worked for people like that. And Lester adored Dean, everybody could see that. Perhaps he would do anything to keep hold of him – to rid himself of the competition. 

He swallowed again, tightened his grip on one oar. They might be alone but he could be armed. Lester wouldn’t be able to get rid of him that easily. And he could swim. They hadn’t gone out that far. He could easily swim to the bank. Go and find Dean and tell him the truth about his husband. 

“He is cheating on me, isn’t he?” Those beady eyes were boring into Sam, penetrating him. 

“I don’t know - I don’t know what you’re—“ 

“Oh save it,” Lester said, raising one hand dramatically. “Don’t lie to me, Sam. I don’t like liars. He’s been different. He’s been acting…” He pursed his lips, a muscle in his jaw tightened. “He’s hiding things, acting very secretive – more than usual. And he’s lying to me. When people start lying to you, it’s all you can see. It’s all you can think about.” 

“He likes to keep things close,” Sam said at last. His voice sounded weak, his mouth was dry. He swallowed again, tried to wet his lips. “He’s always been like that.” 

“Yes, but this is different. _You_ know. I know you know. The two of you. You’re close. He’d tell you.” 

“Believe me he wouldn’t,” Sam said, trying and failing to keep the bitterness from his voice. “He doesn’t tell me anything. He never has.” 

Lester paused, kept watching him. “I’ll find out,” he said. 

Sam wet his lips again. “And what – what will you do then?” 

Lester looked at him from the corner of his eye. “Oh, I have a plan.” He blew out a breath, turned his head to look away from Sam, at the far bank. His mouth set into a line, his expression hardened. “He despises cheating. He’s never forgiven your poor mother.” 

Sam cringed; he stared down at his hands where they were curled tight around the oars. The wood was smooth and light. He traced the grain with his eyes until he felt dizzy. 

“I don’t feel much like a picnic now,” said Lester. “We should turn around. Take us back.” 

“Okay,” Sam said, feeling overwhelmingly relieved. 

Dean was waiting by the bank as they drew close. Sam daren’t look up at him, daren’t read his face. Lester leaped out of the boat as soon as Sam drew them close enough. He handed the picnic basket to Dean. 

“We didn’t eat it,” he said. “Lost our appetites along the way.” 

Dean’s attention immediately swooped onto Sam and Sam could see the terrified look in his eyes, the twitch at the corner of his mouth. Lester was striding away from them, back towards the house. Dean looked after him then turned back to Sam. 

“What did you say? Did you—“ 

“Nothing! I said nothing!” He jumped out of the boat, fastened the thick, leathery rope around the wooden pole. 

“Then what—“ 

“He thinks you’re having an affair.” 

Dean went quiet. Sam bent his head back, looked up at him. Dean was brushing his hand over his face, his eyes flickering backwards and forwards. He looked terrified, guilty. 

“Shit, Sam.” 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything. He thinks you’re having an affair and he wanted to question me about it. I told him I didn’t know anything.” 

Dean blinked a couple of times, turned around, looking after Lester’s retreating back. “We should go inside.” 

Sam followed him across the lawns into the house. Dean was silent, carrying the picnic basket in one hand, walking so fast that even Sam had to increase his stride to keep up. 

Lester was in the kitchen, standing over the coffee machine when they came in. Sam lingered back, watched Dean drop the picnic basket onto the kitchen table. Lester looked up from the machine, made a face. 

“I can’t get it to work again. Would you please work your magic?” 

Dean nodded, his expression shifting into one of such obvious relief that Sam felt embarrassed for him. He watched Dean bend over the machine and flick a couple of switches. Lester stood over Dean, placed his hand on Dean’s arm, the touch both intimate and possessive. Sam watched Dean lift his head up, meet Lester’s eyes with a fond smile. 

“You know you’re hopeless with machinery,” he said. 

Lester ran his hand up Dean’s arm, to the nape of his neck, pushing his fingers into his hair with a gentle caress. “I know, my love. It’s a good job I have you to look after me.” He cleared his throat and turned his head to look across the room at Sam. “Did he tell you?” 

Sam’s gut twisted in terror. “Tell me what?” He looked at Dean, but Dean’s head was turned away, his attention riveted to the machine, making Lester’s precious cup of coffee. 

“We’re moving,” said Lester. 

“ _What?_ Where?” 

“London.” 

“ _London_?” 

“Yes, that’s right, Sam, London.” Lester looked amused, watching him closely again. “London. It’s for the business really, my European business. I recently consolidated various parts of the business into one big holdings company. I can run it much easier from London. The time difference here makes things difficult, eight hours, nine hours if it’s the continent. And besides, I have a hankering to be home again. You just can’t get proper tea here. Americans have never been able to get that right. And don’t get me started on the TV. I used to resent paying the old licence fee but you really learn to appreciate it when you come here, the constant barrage of adverts, every few minutes...” 

His words washed over Sam like white noise. Sam stared at his brother, at the back of his neck, at the place where his shirt collar met his hair, at the pale nubs of his elbows, at the hole in his jeans, purposely distressed, not torn and patched and mended like they used to be. 

“You’re leaving? Going to London to live?” he babbled. 

Lester’s wave of words stopped and he gave Sam a curious, penetrating look. “Yes, that’s right, Sam. To live. Take up residence. To reside there.” 

“But it’s not. Dean, it’s not. You won’t like it!” he blurted. “I’ve been there. I was there for two months and it’s – it’s crowded. There are so many people and it’s hard to drive and the public transport is terrible. The tube gets so hot in summer and it never runs on time and everything’s so expensive, rents and food and drink.” 

“Money won’t be a problem,” Lester cut in. 

Sam snapped his gaze to him, blinked. “But what about his job, what about Dean’s job?” 

Was this Lester’s plan? What he’d been trying to warn Sam about on the boat just before. Was this his way of getting Dean away from this mysterious other person? Getting Dean away from _him_? Did he know? Had he been playing him? Was he still playing him? 

“I’m jacking it in,” Dean said, finally turning around to join the conversation. He handed Lester his cup of coffee. “You kept telling me I should quit so I am. I’m not going to model in London. In fact,” he glanced at Lester, like he was looking for reassurance, “I’m going back to school. I’m applying to some of the universities in London.” 

Sam recoiled like he’d been slapped in the face. He blinked again, felt his fingers curl into fists at his sides. “You’re going back to college?” 

Dean nodded. “Yeah.” 

Sam pressed his lips together, swallowed hard. His stomach was churning, chest aching. He could feel the blur and sting of tears at the back of his eyes. “And when – when are you going?” 

“A couple of months,” Lester answered. His tone was cool, serene even. Sam watched through aching, throbbing eyes as he placed his hand on Dean’s shoulder, caressed the nape of his neck with his long fingers. 

Dean smiled faintly at Lester. He still hadn’t looked Sam in the eyes. _Look at me_ , Sam silently begged, _look at me, please. See what you’re doing to me. You can’t do this to me, Dean. You can’t leave me._

He swallowed again, willed his voice to not shake, to not sound weak when he finally managed to speak again, “Well, I – I should get going.” 

He walked out of there before they had chance to say anything else. 

 

**

 

He drove mindlessly, barely registering where he was. His eye sockets were burning; his throat aching and fingers shaking as he gripped the wheel. He took an exit off the freeway, some distant, survivalist part of his brain telling him that it was probably a good idea to get out of fast moving traffic when he could barely concentrate on the road. He drove for a few miles before he pulled into a dingy-looking roadhouse bar. It was busy, the parking lot full. He parked and waited in the driver’s seat, trying to get himself under control. He listened to the engine ticking over, the blast of country music from the roadhouse whenever the doors opened and closed. 

He raised his head and finally took in his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, didn’t even know how long he’d been driving, how far away from the city he’d come. He got out the car and strode into the bar, feeling several suspicious gazes swing his way. It was busy, but not busy enough for him not to stand out like – well – like an obviously gay dude amongst a bar full of Republican-voting, Nascar-loving, painfully straight stereotypes. He took a seat at the bar and ordered a double shot of whiskey. He drained it in a couple of gulps and shuddered, his eyes watering as the harsh liquid burned the back of his throat and slipped like fire into his gut. He ordered another and another, the waitress grudgingly filling him up each time. 

“Hey, why don’t you leave the bottle next time?” Sam said after his third drink. He waved a fifty dollar bill at her which she took with an eye-roll, planting the bottle down onto the bar in front of him. “I’ll take a beer chaser too,” Sam called after her. 

He drank like he was on a mission, his vision swimming and swirling and swooping. He welcomed the haziness, the way all coherent thought was retreating under the onslaught of straight whiskey and beer chasers. He didn’t want to think anymore. He would be happy to go through his life and never think of anything again. 

“Hey, sasquatch, we’re closing,” the waitress announced. 

He blinked, trying to get her into focus, noticing for the first time that the bar had gotten a lot quieter. The bar staff were wiping down tables and stacking chairs, a few people stumbling outside. 

“You need to settle your tab.” 

He blinked again, that final word registering in some dim, coherent part of his mind. He fumbled out his wallet, dropped a few bills onto the bar. He slid off his stool. The ground reared up to meet him and he grabbed onto the bar to steady himself. 

“Hey, you good to drive there?” she said, collecting the money. She sounded distracted, uninterested, and he waved a sloppy hand at her, curled his fingers around his car keys where they lay in his pocket. 

After the hot, sweaty bar, the night air hit him like diving into a cool swimming pool. He remembered suddenly the day of Dean’s party, diving into the pool at the end of the night and wrestling with Dean in the water, the feel of Dean’s cold, slippery limbs under his fingers. He closed his eyes on the memory, felt his chest tighten. 

“Hey, you! Faggot!” 

He opened his eyes. Some guys were there – he couldn’t tell how many – his vision too hazy, too bleary. He watched them approach, a dead, helpless feeling in his stomach. The first punch hit him there, right in the solar plexus. He doubled over in pain, the nausea whoosh-whooshing in his fuzzy head. The next punch was in his side, then a kick to the shins. He fell to the ground, knees and palms scraping on the gravel. A boot in the side and he was lying on the floor, curling himself up into a ball, feeling one of them leaning over him and rifling through his pockets for his wallet and keys. He heard their voices as if from far away, his eyes squeezed closed. The final kick was in the stomach and he wretched, his body shuddered, throat convulsing as he began to throw up. 

The wave of nausea passed at last and he collapsed once more, sinking his aching, throbbing body into the ground with relief. 

He closed his eyes. 

 

**

 

When he came to he was in hospital. 

He remembered everything straight away: he’d been beaten up outside a shady roadhouse bar. Some guys he’d barely seen had come out of nowhere and jumped his stupid, drunken ass. They’d taken his wallet and keys and credit cards and driver’s licence and all those random numbers from one-night-stands he’d picked up since he’d been back in LA. He’d have to reapply for a replacement driver’s licence and bank cards, keys for his car. Shit, his car. What had happened to his car? Was it still at the bar? Had his attackers stolen it? 

He kept his eyes closed, the thought of everything he had to do making him feel bone-deep exhausted. And he ached. God, he ached. His head was pounding, a rhythmical drumbeat of pain. Where were the nice prescription drugs? Surely Mom would’ve made sure they’d put him on the good stuff. Maybe if he kept his eyes closed then he’d fall asleep again. He would like to go to sleep again. 

“Sammy? Are you awake?” 

That was Dean’s voice. Only Dean called him that. 

He opened his eyes. 

Dean was sitting on a chair beside his bed. He looked worried, his eyes wandering over Sam’s face and body like he was cataloguing the damage. How long had he been waiting for Sam to wake up? He hoped it was a long time; he liked the idea of Dean sitting beside his bed, keeping vigil over him. And after all, all this was Dean’s fault, if Dean hadn’t told him he was leaving—

A wave of grief hit him and he turned his head away from Dean, bit his lip, felt the swell of tears behind his eyes. 

“Sammy? Hey, look at me. Are you okay? How’re you feeling?” 

“Go away,” he whispered. 

“No, man. You’ve been – you were attacked, Sam. Some assholes attacked you. We were so worried. Hey, c’mere, look at me.” 

_C’mere... c’mere, Sam..._

Dean had said those things to him before. He’d said them before he’d pulled him in and kissed him and touched him and loved him. And now he was pushing him away like it meant nothing, like Sam was just an inconvenience, just a fun way to spend some time before Dean went back to his husband and his comfortable easy life. Before Dean left him for good. 

“Is Mom here?” 

“Yeah, Sam, she’s here. Her and Greg. They’re with the doctors. You were unconscious. They had to do an MRI. You had bruises, some swelling. We were so worried, man, but they say you’re gonna be okay. No permanent head trauma. They said it could’ve been so much worse...” he trailed off, swallowed hard. 

“It hurts,” San muttered, “everything hurts.” His right hand hurt. He stared down at it. Two fingers were bandaged together. “Are they broken?” 

“No, just sprained. They’ll heal quickly. Least that’s what the doctor said.” 

“My right hand,” he said dully. “Great.” 

“Yeah, no jacking off for you in the near future,” Dean said. His voice faded away as soon as he said it and he pressed his lips together. Sam rolled his head and looked at him, looked at him for what felt like a long time. Dean looked back at him, not saying anything. Finally, he dropped his gaze and got up from the chair. He turned and poured some water from a plastic jug into a glass, plopped a straw into it. “You should drink something,” he said. His voice sounded rusty and he cleared his throat, tried again. “You must be thirsty.” 

He _was_ thirsty. He licked his lips. They felt dry and chapped. His throat felt sore when he swallowed. He watched Dean’s face as Dean leaned over him, guiding the straw to his mouth. Sam sipped gratefully, not taking his eyes off his brother’s face, though he could tell that the scrutiny was making Dean uncomfortable. There were bruises under Dean’s eyes too, not real bruises, but dark circles and puffiness. He looked pale, the freckles on his face more prominent than usual, his lips pinker. Sam wanted to touch them, trace them with the tips of his fingers, kiss them. 

“I’m sorry,” Dean said quietly. He sat down again when Sam was done, placed the empty glass on the stand. He raised his hand to his face, scrubbed it over his chin, up across his eyes and into his hair. “I should’ve told you before. About,” he hesitated, flicked an anxious, uncertain look at Sam again. He licked his lips. “I’m sorry. When Mom called me to say you were here, I. God, Sam. I was so fucking worried. You can’t – you can’t do shit like this.” 

Sam stared back at him, not giving him anything. He felt too tired to argue with him. Dean should feel guilty, he should. This was his fault. All of it was his fault. He started it. He started the entire fucking thing and now he wanted to bail. Well, Sam wasn’t going to let him go that easily. He _needed_ him. 

“Like you care,” he said finally, putting all the bitterness he felt into the words. 

“I care. Christ, I care!” 

“Really? Is that why you’re moving to the other side of the fucking world, Dean? ‘Cause you care so fucking much.” 

Dean’s expression fell, his lips clamped together. “That’s got nothing to do with this.” 

“Bullshit. That’s got everything to do with it! Why d’you think I was in that bar? Getting shit-faced? Why’d you think I let those guys beat me up? I didn’t lift a finger to defend myself, Dean. I didn’t even care!” 

Dean looked like he’d been punched in the face. “Sammy, please, don’t—“ 

“Don’t what? It’s the truth! You’re leaving. You’re leaving me! You – you start this shit with me and you make me feel like this, like,” he gestured at himself, “you make me need you – _love_ you and then – then you leave. You don’t get to do that. I won’t let you go! I need you, Dean. I love you, I – I—“ he stumbled over the words, his dry, scratchy throat throbbing. He blinked, felt the sting of tears. “Please. I’m begging you. Don’t go.” 

“Sam.” Dean looked agonised. He looked away from Sam and Sam could see his eyes redden. He looked back at Sam and he was pleading now. “I’m married, I—“ 

“Divorce him. Divorce him, Dean. Everybody does it. It’s so easy. Divorce him and be with me. Just think – you and me, just us.” 

“No, we can’t. We can’t do that,” Dean said. He was shaking his head, but he looked conflicted, terrified. “Sammy, we can’t. We’re – we’re brothers, for Christ’s sake.” 

“I don’t care!” Sam bit out. He tried to force himself up more, into a sitting position, wincing at the pull to his damaged body. He ignored it, needing, desperate to get a look at his brother’s face, to get him to see. “Look at me, look at me!” 

Slowly, painfully, Dean turned his head back to Sam. His fingers brushed over Sam’s forearm where it lay on the bed, touching a big purple-yellow bruise. “I can’t,” he said finally. His voice was cracked, so faint. “I’m so sorry, but. I’m married. I made a promise.” 

“You’ve broken that promise already. You broke it the first time you kissed me.” 

“I know, I know that, but. He loves me. I can’t do that to him. He needs me, Sam.” 

Sam rolled his head away from Dean, stared at the blank wall. “Fine,” he said and his voice was scrambled up, echoing dully in his head. “Then get out. Leave me alone.” 

He didn’t listen to Dean’s protests and kept staring at the wall until he heard the chair scrape back and Dean’s footsteps carry him away.


	8. Chapter 8

Mom insisted on taking him home with her for the first three days. He’d been signed off work for two weeks, though he had no intention of taking the full two weeks, and most people at Tandy & Greg would never expect him to. Work came first in his world and Sam wanted – needed – the distraction of work. But Mom had taken a week off to look after him, to nurse him and fuss over him so he had to leave with her. She helped him into his old bed in his old bedroom on the first day, deaf to his protests that there was really nothing wrong with him, that he felt just fine and he could manage just fine. Still, it was secretly kinda nice to be looked after again, to have her bringing him sandwiches and glasses of Gatorade in bed, so he didn’t protest that much. 

The police came by on the first day. They’d found his car abandoned and wrecked off the PCH somewhere. A complete write-off, the insurance claim should be easy enough, they said. He smiled wanly at them and wondered about the classic Camaro Dean had been rebuilding for him. He wondered if his brother was still doing that, or if Dean had abandoned the project, now that he was packing up and moving away. 

He made a pretty useless witness. He couldn’t even remember how many guys there’d been, never mind give any sort of physical description. Mom hovered by him as he answered the questions and ushered them out as soon as she could. After they’d gone, she sat down beside him, pulled him into her arms and kissed his forehead. 

“You ever going to tell me what’s wrong, sweetie?” she asked gently. “You can tell me anything, you know. I’ll always love you, Sam. You’ll always be my special boy.” 

The tears sprang to his eyes and he squeezed them tight shut, embarrassed and ashamed. He clung to her and let the tears roll down his face unchecked. Luckily, she didn’t press him anymore, just held him close and brushed his hair back off his face and kissed his cheeks as he silently wept. 

Dean and Lester dropped by to visit on the second day. Lester was carrying a bunch of grapes and a couple of paperback novels. 

“Dickens,” he announced, handing over _Nicholas Nickleby_ and _David Copperfield_. “I always read Dickens when I was ill. It’s like a nice warm blanket.” 

Sam thanked him and watched him munch through all the grapes as he talked to Mom about the arrangements for her and Greg’s engagement party. They’d hired some fancy gardens and were inviting 150 people: work friends and golf club friends and hospital friends and wine club friends and neighbours and ex co-workers, the list went on and on. 

Dean barely took part in the conversation, not meeting Sam’s eyes and answering Mom’s questions with perfunctory, listless words as Lester talked enough for everybody. Sam watched his brother the entire time they were there. He looked tired and pale and Lester mentioned something about Dean not sleeping well, about them sleeping in separate bedrooms for the last few nights because Dean’s insomnia had been keeping him awake. 

_Good_ , Sam thought viciously, staring hard at his brother, silently urging him to look up, to look at him.

“Do you think Dean’s okay?” Mom asked after they’d left. “He didn’t look well. What do you think, honey? I think it must be the stress of the move. England’s a whole other country, and although I love Lester, sometimes I wonder if him and Dean,” she broke off, worried her lip, “I don’t know.” 

“What?” Sam said, watching her avidly. He wanted to hear this, wanted Mom to say it: _He’s not right for Dean. Dean shouldn’t be going to London with him. Dean belongs here, with his family._

She gave him a faint, fond smile. “I don’t know. You two boys. The heartbreak and worry you give me.” 

Sam gave her his own weak smile in return, feeling the guilt knot up in his chest. 

On the fourth day Mom drove him back to his place, installed him on the couch, and cleaned up while he watched reruns of CSI Miami. The place was sparkling by the time she left, kissing his cheek and begging him to call her tomorrow. As soon as she was gone, he called Craig. 

“Dude, _dude_ ,” were Craig’s first words as Sam opened the door to him. “You look like crap. Those assholes really did a number on you.” 

“Thanks.” He limped back to the couch. “Did you bring the good stuff?” 

“Course. Don’t I always deliver?” Craig tossed him a white paper bag. Sam opened it, a smile breaking over his face when he saw the baggie of weed and blisters of Percocet. He popped a couple of the pills and tossed the bag back to Craig. 

They smoked the first joint quickly. Half way through the second, Craig squinted at him and asked, “Should you be doing this? What meds are you on?” 

“Now you ask. You’re the medical professional, you tell me.” 

Craig shrugged, “My guess: you’ll be fine. You’d be surprised how much some people can take and you’re the size of a gorilla. Hey, can I take a look?” Before Sam had chance to protest, he was shuffling closer and grabbing for the hem of Sam’s tee. He pushed it up, exposing Sam’s bruised, rainbow-coloured chest and abs. “Whoa, looks painful.” 

“Yeah, it is.” 

Craig squinted, cocked his head. “It’s kinda hot. In a fucked-up way.” 

Sam snorted and pushed him away. “Get off.” 

“So, what happened? What the fuck were you doing at a breeder bar?” 

“God, I don’t know. Getting drunk?” 

Craig nodded, regarding him shrewdly. “This got something to do with your brother?” Sam blinked, felt that familiar hot twist in his gut at the mention of Dean. Evidently, Craig could see it on his face because he blew out a stream of smoke and shook his head. “Dude, that situation’s fucked-up.” 

“You’re telling me.” They went quiet for a couple of beats before Sam prodded Craig in the thigh with his foot. “Hey. Would you do me a favour?” 

Craig took a drag on the joint, exhaled before he said, “Depends what it is.” 

“Come with me to my mom’s engagement party.” 

Craig raised an eyebrow. “We all official now?” 

“Christ, no. Just. I could do with the moral support.” 

Craig kept looking at him, his gaze squinty but steady. “’Cause of Dean?” 

“Who else?” Sam said bitterly. 

“You want to make him jealous?” 

“No, no, not that,” Sam said. “Well not _just_ that. I – God, I want someone to be there. Who’s on my side.” 

“And you’re asking me?” Craig raised both eyebrows this time. 

He’d never given it much thought before, just how cut off he was from other people. He’d had a circle of friends in college, and Richard of course, his first real, hell, his _only_ boyfriend, not that he kept in touch with any of them now, except via Facebook updates. He hadn’t seen his old high school best friend Chris for years; their lives were just so different. Then there was Stéphane, the guy he’d kinda dated in Paris, but he was half-way across the world and only communicated with these long, erotic emails, explicitly detailing how much he loved Sam’s dick and how much he missed it. And here in LA... well there was Craig, whom he guessed was a friend, or at least the nearest thing he had to a friend. 

“Yeah, I guess I am.” 

“Okay,” Craig said. “Okay, I’ll come.” 

Sam exhaled and leaned over to elbow him in the side, only wincing a little at the pull in his muscles. “Thanks, man. I appreciate it.” 

 

** 

 

Craig was late picking him up. Sam was pacing through his apartment, absently straightening and rearranging things, trying to resist the urge to run his fingers through his hair or go change again. Mom had said elegant, so he’d put on a suit. It was the safest option. 

The blare of the buzzer made him jump. He ran down the stairs and out into the street. Craig’s car was pulled up against the curb. He yanked open the passenger side door and scrambled inside. 

“You’re late,” he said. 

Craig shrugged. “Sorry, dude. Shift ran over. Shoot-out in a convenience store, three dead, five criticals. Fucking messy shit.” 

“Oh. Well, I guess that counts as a good excuse.” 

Craig snorted and pulled them out into the traffic. 

“Your mom sure knows how to put on a fancy party,” he commented a couple of hours later as they strolled across the sun-soaked terrace crammed full of animated and well-dressed people. A waitress paused beside them, holding out a tray of champagne flutes. Craig snatched up a couple of glasses and handed one off to Sam. “There you go, don’t say I never get you anything.” 

Sam took it from him and scanned the crowd, heart-rate bumping and tripping as he searched for his brother’s familiar profile. It had been a couple of weeks since he’d seen Dean, since that day at Mom’s place, and he felt nervous, anticipatory with just the thought of laying eyes on him. He squinted at the blazing hot sun. Most of the crowd was taking advantage of the shade provided by the big spreading canopies and trees which covered most of the stone-paved terrace. He could feel the trickle of sweat under his collar and the small of his back where his shirt was starting to stick to his skin. His suit jacket felt heavy and uncomfortable, and he thought longingly of the cargo shorts and polo shirt lying on his bed at home. 

Despite the heat, the party seemed to be going very well. Waitresses in old-fashioned 50s dress were circulating with champagne and canapés, and a swing band was playing a doo-wop version of _Under the Moon of Love_ , though the heat seemed to have put off most guests from any attempts at dancing. 

He wandered towards the edge of the terrace to peer over the stonework wall, Craig at his elbow. It gave a perfect view of the gardens, which sloped steeply away from them on differing distinct levels, like a life-sized, tiered wedding cake. Long, winding stone paths snaked through the trees and shrubs eventually leading to the bottom tier which boasted the gardens’ showpiece: the biggest hedge maze in California. 

Sam sipped his champagne and scanned the crowd again, his heart skipping a beat when he finally spotted Dean, standing beside Lester and another guy, holding a glass of champagne and watching Lester talk. Even from this distance, Sam could see how bored and uncomfortable his brother looked, the smile rigid on his face, his eyes jumping from Lester to the other guy to the various groups of expensively dressed guests to – _there_. Sam’s stomach flipped over as their gazes collided. He swallowed hard and felt the sweat break and pop. Dean was looking back at him – at him and Craig. They stared at each other for what felt like a long time then Lester said something, laying a hand on Dean’s arm to bring him back into the conversation and Sam let out a long breath when Dean finally looked away. 

“That’s him, isn’t it? The one you were just making googly eyes at?” 

“Yes,” Sam said. “That’s him.” 

Craig took a sip of his drink. “Honestly, dude, I thought he’d be hotter. He looks way hotter in his modelling pictures stuff, _and_ in those pictures on your computer. Sure, he’s pretty, and I wouldn’t kick him out of bed, but from the way you’re freaking _pining_ over him—“ 

“ _Shut up_ ,” Sam hissed through gritted teeth. “And c’mere.” 

Craig raised an eyebrow but he didn’t protest when Sam stepped in closer and dropped his hand to Craig’s shoulder in an intimate gesture. He leaned in like he was about to impart a secret. After all, if Dean was looking for something here then Sam wasn’t going to disappoint him. He wasn’t above making his brother jealous. Dean deserved a bit of his own treatment. 

Craig gave him a frank, amused look. “Oh no. This isn’t at all about making him jealous.” 

“Shut up, Craig,” Sam repeated. He licked his lips, flicked a quick glance towards Dean. He was talking to Lester and the other guy, not looking their way. Sam almost jumped when he felt Craig’s hand on his hip, fingers curling against the scratchy material of his dress pants. “What are you doing?” he whispered. 

Craig just smirked and hooked the hand holding the champagne flute up and around the back of Sam’s neck. “Giving him something to be jealous about.” 

Sam opened his mouth, about to say something else when Craig surged up on his tiptoes and planted a kiss on his lips. Sam went still but he didn’t resist, it would give the game away if he resisted. When Craig was done, he tipped his head back and narrowed his eyes a little. 

“Give me some warning next time.” 

Craig just chuckled. “He was totally watching.” He pulled back, slapped Sam on the ass. “Now go on. You should go talk to him.” 

Sam scowled at him and glanced over to where Dean was standing with Lester and the other guy. Except... Dean wasn’t there anymore. Just Lester and the guy deep in conversation like Dean had never even been there. “Shit. Where’d he go?” 

Craig jerked his head towards the pathway that threaded through the rockery, descending downwards to the garden’s next tier. “That way.”

Sam pushed his glass of champagne into Craig’s hand and set off after his brother. 

He walked quickly, following the narrow stone path as it wound downwards, soon taking him out of sight of the party. Thick trees flanked him on either side, providing an interspersed canopy over his head. Big, flowering plants grew twisted and curled between the trees in no visible order. Whoever had planned this place had evidently had eccentric taste in shrubbery and garden design. Sam knew next to nothing about plants, but even he could tell that the plant-life around him was a real geographical hotchpotch: plane trees and palm trees, English oak trees and cacti, blindingly colourful tropical flowers and plain Dutch tulips. 

Sam paused when he came to a break in the path, a small alcove with a wooden bench perched just in front of a viewing platform. He peered down onto the lower levels, seeing the entire hedge maze for the first time. From above it looked neat and precise, all criss-crossed patterns and ninety degree angles with the occasional stone statue and topiary animal. He stared down at it, and noticed a familiar figure enter the maze: Dean. 

He whirled around and set off after him. He entered the maze, hearing his dress shoes crunch ostentatiously on the stones. The hedges reared up on either side of him, tall and imposing, the scent of vegetation heavy in the thick, hot air. He turned a corner and came to a halt. Dean was standing at an intersection where four paths met in a crossroads. Huge topiary animals were holding vigil on each side of the square and a stone sundial sat squat and ugly dead centre. Dean was leaning against it, hip cocked, smoking a cigarette and obviously waiting for Sam. 

Dean gestured around him with his lit cigarette. “Doesn’t it remind you of the Overlook Hotel?” 

Sam followed where he was looking and nodded. “Guess so. I like it.” 

Dean blew out a stream of smoke. “Me too.” 

He turned his back on Sam and strolled off down one of the paths. Sam watched him for a couple of beats before he followed. 

They fell into step. Dean was still smoking, his head bowed, not looking at Sam. He finished his cigarette, tossed the smoking butt onto the pebbled stones. He paused, cocked his head to one side and looked up at Sam. 

“Did you bring that guy here to make me jealous?” he said. 

“Did it work?” 

Dean shrugged, his mouth twisted. “Maybe.” 

“Good. Now you know what it’s like for me. Seeing you with him.” 

Dean nodded a couple of times. “Yeah, I guess so.” 

“Are you,” Sam hesitated, licked his lips, tried again, “are you still planning on leaving?” 

Dean didn’t look at him but just answered, “Yes.” 

Sam felt his heart sink and he swallowed hard. He moved closer to Dean, laid his hand on his shoulder. Dean looked up at him; his eyes were wide and unguarded, looking straight at Sam. “Don’t,” Sam pleaded. Please, don’t. Don’t leave with him. Leave with me.” 

“What?” 

“Come to New York with me. I’ve been thinking about it, Dean, and I’ve been,” he took another breath, sunk his fingers tighter into the muscle of Dean’s shoulder, into the fabric of his linen shirt, “I spoke to Van der Horst. You know, the CEO at Tandy & Grey, that South African dude Lester knows. I’ve been working things out. I’m transferring to the New York office, there’s a position there for me. He’s agreed to help push it through – make it happen quickly. Even if you won’t come with me, I think I’m still gonna go. I can’t stay here anymore, not when everything here makes me think of you.” 

“Sammy—“ 

“Please. Listen to me. I’ve been thinking about it and we could both go. We could both go and live there together. In New York. You could go to college, or you could keep modelling. I wouldn’t mind. You could do anything you wanted, and we would be together. Just us, Dean.” 

Dean was staring at him, his lips a little parted and Sam could see it – the flicker in his eyes – the glimmer. Dean was listening to him, he was really listening. Sam lowered his voice, his most persuasive tone. “You’d like it in New York. We could be anyone there. No one would know. Mom and Greg, well, they’re here, and they wouldn’t think anything of it if we shared an apartment. I could earn enough to keep us, Dean. And you could go to college, just like you were planning to in London. And we’d be together. Every night we’d come home and it would just be us. Our apartment, our place. Just you and me.” Dean bowed his head and Sam felt his stomach sink. “Dean?” he murmured. 

Dean wrenched out of his grasp and took a couple of steps away from him. Sam stretched out his hand as if to snatch him back. 

“Please. Just think about it. Just – remember that weekend? Remember being together, waking up together, going to bed together. That could be us all the time.” 

“No, Sam.” 

“What?” 

“Just. Just hear what you’re saying, man. We’re brothers. You’re my brother. This isn’t some big romance, it’s—“ 

“It’s what?” Sam interrupted. He dropped his hand to his side, screwed it up into a fist. “Tell me what this is, Dean! ‘Cause I really want to know! I know how I feel about you. I’m in love with you for fuck’s sake! I’m crazy about you. I love you – like a brother, like family, yes. But, God, so much more than that! I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I’ve been with a lot of guys and I even gave two craps about a couple of them. But me and you – this is. This is something else.” He swallowed and bowed his head, voice getting softer, letting the longing creep in. “No one else will ever love you like I love you and no one else will ever get you like I do.” 

Dean was weakening, he could see it. His iron willpower or epic stubbornness or stupid fucking perversity – whatever the hell it was that was keeping him from Sam was weakening. He looked vulnerable, the layers falling away. His eyes shining as he stared back at Sam. 

“I know you, Dean. I know why you won’t leave him. But you don’t see it, you don’t see it yourself. You wanted me and you wanted out of your marriage enough to sleep with me, your own brother.” He saw Dean flinch, saw his eyes flutter closed, his hand tremble. “But you won’t take the final step and leave him. That makes no fucking sense. You must see that.” 

He took a step closer to Dean, the pebbles crunched under his feet. Dean’s eyes fluttered open again. He swallowed, his gaze darted to Sam’s outstretched hand and then back to Sam’s face. “You think you know me?” he whispered. 

“Yeah, yeah, I do,” Sam said, defiance creeping into his tone. “I do, Dean.” His eyes locked on Dean’s face, willing him to see it – see the truth. 

“Sammy, we don’t know each other. Not really,” Dean said sadly. “And this – what this is. It’s an obsession, man. You’ll get over it and then you’ll be okay. You just want me ‘cause I’m – ‘cause it’s a taboo and it’s exciting and ‘cause you can’t have me. But you gotta see: I’m married and I’m not just going to give up on that. I told you that. You got to understand that. You’ll find someone else, man, you just—“ 

“Like Dad got over Mom you mean? Like how Dad found someone else?” he snapped.

Dean hesitated; something flickered over his face, his expression hardened. “Don’t. Don’t talk about him.” 

“Why not? Why the fuck not, Dean? ‘Cause from where I’m standing he’s got a real fucking lot to answer for! He screwed you up bad.” 

“Sam—“ 

“People get divorced!” he cried. “It’s 2007 for Christ’s sake! One in two marriages ends in divorce! It happens all the fucking time! Just ‘cause Dad had some big—“ he broke off, blew out a breath. “You don’t know, Dean. He never told you about it, did he? But Mom talked to me, she told me. And I know, I remember. You’ve got these fucking rose-tinted memories but I remember how it was. You think they were happy together? You think it was all sunshine and roses between them. You think it was just her, all her fault. Fuck, Dean, she never would’ve looked twice at Greg if Dad hadn’t made her so fucking miserable!” 

Dean’s expression had gone as hard as stone, his eyes flinty cold as they stared back at Sam. Sam’s heart sank; he could feel all his hopes, all his arguments, all his convincing speeches, all his carefully laid plans crumble away. 

“Are you done?” Dean said and his voice was all ice. 

He felt a spark of defiance ignite in his gut. He shook his head, hardened his own expression. “No. No, I’m not.” 

“Well, tough, ‘cause I ain’t listening to this.” Dean spun around, stones crunching under his feet as he made to stomp away.

“No! Don’t you walk away from me!” Sam sprang after him, grabbed for his arm, yanked him back. 

Dean whirled around, fist flying. Sam stumbled when he felt it connect with his jaw, the pain ripping through his head and twisting cruel and hard, down through his body. He cradled his face and peered at Dean through his spread fingers. 

Dean’s fist was still clenched and he was staring back at Sam, white-faced, his lip caught between his teeth, a look of disbelief on his face. 

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured, taking a step forward. 

Sam stepped backwards, stumbling a little when he felt the stones slip under his shoes. He flailed his arms, trying to regain his balance, fell backwards and felt the leafy jab of the hedge through his suit jacket and against his palms. He dug his fingers into the prickly branches, pushed himself upright. 

“I didn’t mean to do that, I didn’t mean to hit you,” Dean mumbled. He looked agonized, curled up fist dangling uselessly by his side. Sam watched him swallow, watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “God, it wasn’t supposed to be like this.” He pushed out a hard, pained breath. “God, Sam, I was gonna be with him for the rest of my life. When I said those words, I meant it all. I didn’t want to. I don’t want to do what Mom did to Dad.” 

Sam blinked at him, swirled his tongue tentatively around his aching, shell-shocked mouth. “Dean, you already have. You promised you’d be faithful too.” His voice sounded hollow, his tongue thick and strange, like he was talking through a mouth of novocaine. 

Dean bowed his head, let out a strangled, bitter laugh. “Yeah, I know. I fucking know that.” 

“And what’s so bad about it? Mom, she’s happy. She loves Greg. He loves her. They’re good together. Sometimes people make mistakes. You’re allowed to make mistakes.” 

“This is some fucking mistake.” 

Sam sighed. His jaw throbbed, his fingers were aching too, he’d forgotten to bandage them up that morning, and they ached with a dull, resonating pain. His whole body felt exhausted, the heat thrumming like a live thing, oppressive and thick. “Just give it up, Dean,” he said quietly. “Please. Just – stop thinking you owe him. Stop trying to make him happy and think of yourself for once. He’s not Dad. You don’t owe him and going to London with him isn’t going to make everything better. You’re allowed to be happy, you know.” 

Dean raised his head and looked at him. His eyes were gleaming like sparklers, watery with unshed tears. “Easy for you to say.” 

“Why can’t it be easy for you too?” He swallowed again, his throat hurt and he could feel the sting of tears in his eyes. His jaw ached so much. “Okay, if you won’t do it for yourself then do it for me. For your little brother. Divorce him. Come to New York. Be with me. Make me happy. I need you too, Dean.” He shuffled forward until he was standing directly in front of his bother. 

“I’m sorry about your face,” Dean said. “Your handsome face.” He smiled sadly and lifted his hand, stroked his fingertips gently over the blossoming bruise on Sam’s jaw. Sam winced and caught hold of the hand. He pulled it away from his face, laced their fingers together. 

“If it makes you feel better this hand’s throbbing like a bitch.” Dean raised his other hand and winced, giving Sam a rueful smile. 

“It doesn’t,” Sam said. “But you can make it all better if you say yes.” 

Dean chuffed out a breath and bowed his head again. He glanced up at Sam through his eyelashes, looking almost amused. “You’re a cheesy, cold-hearted bastard, Sam Winchester.” 

“I’m in love with you. I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life. Divorce him. Come with me to New York. Please, Dean. Let yourself be happy for once.” 

Dean pushed out a breath and twisted his hand out of Sam’s grasp. He dragged it through his hair, down across his face. Then he raised his head and looked Sam in the eyes. 

“Okay,” he said. “You win. I’ll come with you.” 

 

**

 

The party had wound down some by the time they made their way back through the maze and up the steep pathways to the terrace. The band was playing _Superstition_ , and a few couples, Mom and Greg amongst them, were dancing. Dean led the way to an empty table in a secluded corner of the terrace and took a seat. Sam dropped down onto a chair beside him and turned to watch the crowd. He spotted Craig first, talking to a guy Sam recognised from Dean and Lester’s party a couple of months ago, the one who’d promised him an exclusive invitation to the hottest bathhouse in the state of California. It was the kind of offer Craig wouldn’t be able to turn down, and sure enough, Craig and the guy were leaving now, heading towards the parking lot with their fingers brushing. 

“I think your date just dumped you,” Dean said. 

“He wasn’t my date. Not really.” 

“Oh.” Dean took his packet of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket and shook one out onto the table. He picked it up with his bruised hand, wincing a little as he brought it to his mouth. “You want one?” he asked, cigarette waggling up and down between his lips as he spoke. 

“No,” Sam said. “I’m good.” In truth, his jaw ached, his busted lip was quietly throbbing away. Smoking was one of the last things he felt like doing. 

Dean lit up and tossed his Zippo onto the table. He took a drag, using his undamaged left hand, eying Sam. “Does it hurt?” 

“Yeah, it does.” 

“I’m sorry.” 

“That’s okay. You can make it up to me.” 

The corner of Dean’s mouth crooked up a little and he took another drag on his cigarette. “Okay.” 

“Oh, so you’ve finally returned.” 

Sam twisted his head to one side to see Lester loom over Dean, one hand resting proprietarily on his shoulder. He pulled out the chair beside Dean and sank down into it. 

“So, where have you two been?” 

Sam licked his bruised lips, glanced at Dean. Dean’s expression was blank, his shoulders tensed, his fingers gripped around his cigarette. 

“We went to check out the maze,” Sam said at last. “We got lost.” 

Lester chuckled, took a sip on the glass of wine he was holding. “Really? How amusing.” He looked at Sam, then paused, eyebrows rising. “What happened? You accidently stumble into a fight somewhere in that maze?” 

Sam raised his hand self-consciously to his face, winced as his fingers touched his painfully tender jaw. Lester glanced at Dean and paused again, gaze travelling down to Dean’s right hand where it lay stiffly on the table, to his guilty, bruised knuckles. 

“So there _was_ a fight,” he said. “Interesting.” 

“Yes, it was uh, it was my fault,” Sam said in a rush. 

He felt Dean give him a look, but he daren’t turn and look at him. He could feel the tension and anxiety radiating off of Dean, his hand shaking a little as he raised the cigarette to his lips. Sam swallowed and looked back at Lester. He was looking between the two of them with that beady, scrutinizing stare and Sam felt like he was in the boat all over again, Lester rummaging around in his head and seeing everything, figuring it all out. 

“Yeah, we – uh, it was. We were fighting about – about Mom and Dad and—“ 

“Sam,” Dean interrupted. Sam hesitated, licked his lips, darted his brother a look again. Dean was looking directly at Lester, Lester returning the stare. “I have to talk to you. There’s something I have to tell you.” 

“Sounds ominous,” said Lester, “but go on, my love. I’m all ears.” 

Vaguely, in the background, Sam heard the music change, _Save the Last Dance for Me_ , one of his mom’s favourite songs. He cast a glance towards the dance floor. Sure enough, Greg was holding her close, spinning the two of them in gentle, quick circles. Her mouth was open and she was saying something to him, laughing and smiling, her face pink with heat and happiness. 

Beside him, Dean’s face was pale. Sam stared down at the table top, at the cigarette smoking between Dean’s trembling fingers, at Dean’s bruised right hand spread-eagled across the table, palm-side down. 

“Yeah,” said Dean, and his voice was faint. “I’ve been having an affair.” 

“I know,” said Lester calmly. 

Dean licked his lips, said, “With Sam.” 

Sam felt the bottom fall out of his stomach, his insides plunge and splatter against the stone flags underneath them. He stared at the side of Dean’s face, at his profile. The pulse throbbed in his throat and wrist, on his tender jaw. 

Lester wasn’t saying anything and Sam wondered if he was just as shocked as Sam felt. Distantly, the lyrics of the song drifted over to him, made absurdly loud in the resonating silence, _…but don’t forget who’s taking you home and in whose arms you’re gonna be...”_ He wondered what would happen if he were to lead Dean up there, the two of them dancing together, Dean in his arms. They’d never danced together, maybe that would be something they could do in New York. 

“You’re acting very calm about this,” Dean said. 

Sam forced his gaze up from the table top and onto Lester’s face. Lester did look calm, eerily, stonily calm. He shrugged, took a sip on his glass of wine. He lowered the glass to the table, toyed with the stem. “I feel calm.” 

“You’re not. Aren’t you shocked?” Sam said. 

Lester swivelled his gaze to Sam. He narrowed his eyes on him and Sam felt his pulse throb, the blood beat in his head. “I always knew that there was something... extraordinary between the two of you. Something that had to be purged.” 

“It’s not,” Sam said, “it’s not purged.” He swallowed, glanced at Dean. Dean looked back at him, his eyes wide. The cigarette was smoking between his two fingers, forgotten, a long trail of ash dangling precariously. “It will never be purged.” 

He watched Dean swallow, saw the mesmerizing up and down motion of his Adam’s apple and felt the absurd urge to lean over and lick it, drag his tongue up the tendons of Dean’s throat and bite down. Dean stared back at him, the cigarette smoked, and in the background, the music changed again: _In Dreams_ by Roy Orbison, another of Mom’s favourite songs. _A candy-coloured clown they call a sandman; tiptoes to my room every night..._

“I take it this means that London is off the cards,” Lester said. 

“I’m sorry,” whispered Dean. 

“Are you?” 

“I didn’t. I didn’t want this to happen.” 

“I bet you didn’t.” Lester’s lip curled up a little. “I’ve been dumped before. Guys who found other guys they liked more, guys who decided they wanted to have a go at that being straight thing. But this. I’ve never been dumped for incest.” 

Sam flinched. The cigarette fell out of Dean’s fingers, tumbled to the ground, ash scattering. Dean ignored it. “I’m really fucking sorry,” he said again, his voice cracking over the words.

Lester snorted, shook his head. “Of course, the really pathetic thing is that you are. I know you are. And I knew it would always end like this. Oh not like _this_ ,” he gestured between the two of them, “even I, well-renowned as I am for my powers of forecasting, did not see this coming. But you and me, my love. Everyone said it. They all warned me. So, where are you running away to? You can’t stay here of course, not with your mother.” He shook his head. “Poor Mary. Poor, poor Mary.” 

A spike of panic struck Sam’s chest. “You won’t tell her?” 

Lester gave him a disgusted look. “Of course not. I have a lot of respect for your poor mother. More than you have, evidently. I won’t be the one to break her heart.” 

“Thank you,” he said. He could hear the song building, the words blaring in the awkward silence. _In dreams I walk with you; in dreams I talk to you; in dreams you’re mine, all of the time…_ He could remember Sunday mornings spent lingering over breakfast when they were kids, the only day of the week all four of them sat down to breakfast together, Mom playing her favourite cassettes on the tinny cassette-radio machine in the kitchen. He and Dean probably knew all the words to this song.

On the dance floor, Mom and Greg and all the other couples were swaying together, oblivious to the drama unfolding at their table, the music playing on without them. The three of them were sitting around the table at near perfect intervals, grouped as neatly as an equilateral triangle; it couldn’t have been staged more perfectly. The eternal triangle, he thought. He felt suddenly like laughing, hysterical and unguarded and euphoric. Dean had done it. They’d both really done it. There was no going back now. 

He bit his lip, glanced surreptitiously at Lester; this man whose heart they had just broken. He was sipping at his wine, his eyes half-closed as he swallowed, his hand a little shaky as he lowered the glass. He already looked older, his face ravaged, eyes pained. Sam swallowed and looked away from him, gaze drifting inexorably to his brother. Dean was watching the dancers, mouthing the words to the music, his lips shaping automatically, thoughtlessly around the syllables and consonants. 

_It only happens in my dreams. Only in dreams, in beautiful dreams._

 

THE END 

**


End file.
